The Odd Odyssey of Harleen Quinzell
by HpVamp
Summary: A written history of the origin of Harley Quinn, murderer and psychopath, and Dr. Harleen Quinzell, intelligent and beautiful doctor. Nolanverse-post TDK
1. Why do You Put Up With Her?

Dr. Harleen Quinzell lounged languidly at the pool's edge, the sun dancing across her face, hi-lighting her brilliant features. She smiled, relishing in the chance to finally be alone. It had been a long day already, even at lunchtime. The only people that didn't sleep in Gotham were its psychopaths, and unfortunately, those were the people she dealt with. Every. Single. Day.

She glanced down at her watch - over an hour left for catching these well deserved rays. She untied her bikini top and let it fall down slightly over her shoulders. This was not the season for tan lines. But then again, is there ever a season for tan lines?

Her bliss was interrupted by the sound of well polished loafers tapping across the asphalt deck of the pool. She opened one eye to take a look, then quickly shut it again. It was Dr. Arkham, accompanied by that idiot Jim Gordon and some other asshole she didn't know. She tried her very best to look asleep. This was her lunch break, goddammit, and so help her they wouldn't be ruining it.

The sound of the loafers stopped next to her lounge chair, and a dark shape blocked her sun. She sighed exasperatedly, realizing her plot of slumber hadn't worked, and opened her eyes, draping an arm over them to get a better view.

"Dr. Arkham," she said with a forced smile, "my break isn't over for another hour, you know."

He curled his lips into a thin smile, one of low tolerance for a woman who liked to break the rules. "I'm sorry to interrupt your sun bathing, but I've got some visitors here that would like to speak to you."

She looked at the two men that had weaseled their way into her time off only briefly, then back at Arkham. "What about?"

He gestured to the man she didn't know, a well-groomed and handsome man of about 35 or so. His black hair was slicked back, and he smiled at her pleasantly, giving her the seductive up down look in her tiny swimsuit. "This is Bruce Wayne. As you know, he's been a big contributer in the funding of Arkham," she smiled back slyly. _Perhaps this wouldn't be a half-bad lunch break after all,_ she thought.

Arkham gestured at Gordon, who smiled flatly. "And you know Commissioner Gordon."

Harleen waved slightly, and Gordon said condescendingly, "Isn't it a little cold to be lounging in your bikini, Dr. Quinzell? It's November, or have you been too wrapped up in your patients to notice?"

Her blue eyes stared holes in him, and she coolly ran a hand through her blonde hair. "Cold is in the body temperature of the beholder. Besides, I don't like being bothered by all the homicidal maniacs Gotham City has to offer, and even they don't come out here in November."

If Wayne was here to make her lunch break sexier, Gordon was here to ruin it. She looked back to Arkham, putting on her best confident 'I-could-care-less-what-any-of-you-think' air. As usual, she was doing quite well. "I'm sorry," she said to him, "but you failed to mention what all of this is about."

His eyes narrowed. "Like I said, Mr. Wayne is funding the asylum, and as you know, costs have recently increased."

She closed her eyes and set her head back down, nodding, an action which pissed Arkham off beyond all reasonable speech, and didn't she know it. She smiled to herself as he stopped speaking, then said, "Please continue, I assure you I'm listening."

Wayne cut in before Arkham could strangle her. "I just want to make sure that I'm funding something I can trust." She turned her head, genuinely interested in his speech. "That is to say, I'm funding something that is actually reforming criminal minds, not just placing them in straight jackets and sedating them."

She smiled at him and nodded. "Well, Mr. Wayne, I can assure you you've made a smart investment," he smiled back. She looked over at Gordon apathetically. "And you're here for what?"

He took a step closer to her, trying perhaps to threaten her, but he failed. "I'm the bodyguard. I want to make sure that no bullshit goes on here that could harm Mr. Wayne."

She sat up in her chair and grabbed her clothes and lab coat that were laying piled on the ground. "Mmmhmm, no bullshit indeed. What exactly are we looking at today? I expect if you wanted specifically to see me, you must have wanted specifically to see one of my patients." She threw her red shirt on and buttoned it up, an act that seemed to slightly upset Wayne.

"You got it," said Gordon, no less condescending than before.

She slid on her black pencil skirt over the button up. "I always do," she said, now throwing on the lab coat. "As you know, Arkham is home to some of the most insane criminals in the world," she was mainly speaking to Wayne now. "And I've worked with some of the most insane Arkham has to offer. The question now is, which nut case would you like to see?" She slipped on her red stilettos and smoothed back the wispy hairs into the tight bun at the back of her neck. "There's Edward Nigma, obsessed with numbers; uh..Victor Fries - actually a very charming man; Selina Kyle, always a favorite with the men - "

"We're not interested in any of them. We want to see the Joker."

Harleen raised her eyebrows at Gordon and smiled a crooked grin. "I thought you'd say that. Right this way."

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

The group made their way down the dank and dark halls of Arkham, past the cells of freaks and murderers galore. There were screams as they walked past, yelling out various names and aliases, and whistles at the voluptuous Dr. Quinzell. She was unperturbed by all of it, taking out an ID Badge from her lab coat pocket.

In a hushed voice, she heard Gordon say to Arkham, "Why exactly do you put up with her shit again?"

She smiled to herself. She loved it when cops came in here, especially macho men cops like Gordon, cops who were threatened by the presence of a strong woman like her. She heard him alright, but she didn't want to glorify his stupid question with an answer.

They reached a steel door at the end of the hallway, guarded by two giant men with semi-automatic weapons.

"Daniel, Thomas," she said, giving them both a nod. "Is my treat on the table?"

The one called Daniel nodded. "It's under control Dr. Quinzell."

"Good," she said. She scanned her ID on a machine resembling a credit card swiper on the door frame, then pushed the door open and motioned for the men to come inside.

When the door opened, a blank room similar to what you might see in a horror film was revealed. There was nothing there but a large metal table and a few chairs. The real wonder was the room inside of the room - what seemed to be a plexiglass viewing chamber was pushed to the side. Inside that room was a mattress with no sheets, and a metal table and two chairs, all bolted down to the floor.

And in that room, he sat.

The Joker.

He had been stripped of his precious purple suit and had had it exchanged for a misshapen tan jumpsuit. His hair was no longer green, but a dirty brown color, and his face was no longer painted.

But he was there alright, and so were his scars, etched permanently into his cheeks in an ugly perma-smile.

He sat on the table, staring menacingly at the glass.

Wayne looked a tad unnerved as he asked, "Can he see us?"

Harleen, who was untying a plastic bag on the metal table, shook her head. "No, no he can't. That glass is bulletproof, soundproof, and two-way. He's just trying to scare you." She took two white cartons from the plastic bag, the unmistakable white cartons of Chinese food. "OH!" She said suddenly, turning around with the cartons in her hands. "Either of you have a gun on you? Or a knife?"

The two men looked at each other and shook their heads. "My weapon was confiscated at the gate," said Gordon.

Harleen nodded. "Pens, glass objects, paper clips? Anything like that?"

"Why do you need to know?" Asked Gordon.

Harleen sighed. What an idiotic question. "I want to know if you have anything that can be turned against you."

"I thought you said the glass was bulletproof," said Gordon.

"It is," she said, and for the first time, a shadow of doubt crossed her pretty, confident face. "But you just never know with him." She shook her head, then produced a martini glass with an olive in it from the plastic bag, and a travel size bottle of Vodka from her lab coat. She poured a good portion of the vodka inside, then downed the martini in one swig.

Gordon rolled his eyes, making no attempt to hide it. "Should you really be drinking before you deal with a man of his caliber?"

She looked at him and laughed, an almost manic laugh, for an astonishingly long amount of time. "Don't fuck with me," she said, then opened the giant steel door to the Joker's cell.

When she was out of ear shot, Bruce asked Arkham, "Is she qualified to handle him? I mean, she can't weigh more than 130 pounds."

Arkham laughed. "Those 130 pounds pack quite a punch though, am I right? In more ways than one." He jabbed Wayne in the arm, but it was clear he didn't understand. Arkham looked at Gordon. "I'm sorry...did he not...?"

Gordon shrugged. "If I don't have to talk about Harleen, I don't."

Arkham looked back to Wayne. "Dr. Quinzell has been trained in every martial art known to mankind, and I'm sure several known only to simiens. She's an expert in deadly force and edge weapons, and God only knows what else. Supposedly she was a member of Black Ops during Desert Storm, but that's simply speculation." He gave Wayne a look that suggested that she was, in fact, a member of Black Ops. "THAT is why, Mr. Wayne, I put up with Harleen Quinzell's shit. THAT is why she is the highest paid doctor at Arkham." He stepped closer to the plexiglass. "And that is why she is in there right now, with a homicidal maniac without so much as a pair of handcuffs on."

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

When Harleen entered the cell, she locked the door behind her, the Chinese food cartons still in her hands. "Good afternoon, Mr. J," she said with a slight smile.

He turned his head very slowly, and his lips curled up in a toothy grin. "Dr. Quinzell! How nice to see you. Can I make an assumption and say one of those cartons is for me?" He spoke calmly and slowly, as if his life depended on his calculated answers.

She nodded. "Chicken Chow Mein, your favorite. Why don't you have a seat and we can break these open?"

He complied, and she walked over and set the cartons on the table. He looked up at her with his creepy smile, licking his lips slowly. "If I remember correctly, this is your lunch hour. So why are you here? Did you miss me?"

She sat down. "As much as I enjoy our sessions, I'm afraid this is rather impromptu. You see, I was very rudely interrupted by a cop and a billionaire in the middle of my tanning session."

"A cop and a billionaire? If I had a nickel for every time that happened to me, I'd be one rich clown." He laughed wildly, a signature that didn't unnerve Harleen - it practically turned her on. She joined him in his laughter, holding back a bit.

When he settled down, he said, "So what are we doing today, Harley? Don't say inkblots. You know I'll only see the severed heads of children anyway."

She shook her head and shoveled in a bite of fried rice, not reacting to his obscene statement. "No, we're not doing Rorschach today. We're just having lunch."

He smiled again. "So it's a date. I always did tend to attract the hardbodied blondes. It's the scars, they drive the women nuts." He paused and thought for a moment. "Speaking of which, did I ever tell you how I got these scars?"

"I believe you mentioned it once or twice, but the explanation escapes me."

"When I was a kid, I had this friend. Absolute little bastard. Rich, good looking, everything I wanted to be, and I would have done anything this kid told me to do. One day, he brought me his father's knife, and dared me to cut my face," he turned his head and showed her the scars, "just like this. So I did, and what do you know, the kid runs off crying like a girl, calling me a freak and insane. Says I did it on my own." He started laughing his manic laugh again, causing Harleen's heart to pound. "Now here's the good part, the real punchline," he almost couldn't finish, he was laughing so hard, and Harleen felt the pounding in her lower gut, "I took that little bastard and I cut his face up, just like mine. Now, he's always smiling. Just like me!" His laugh was uncontrollable now, and Harleen almost felt in need of sexual release - it was a good thing she had such a good poker face.

_Ha, poker face,_ she thought, _The Joker. That's funny. _She smiled a bit despite herself.

He stopped and examined her smile, taken aback at the thought that she would laugh at his sickening story. "Harley, are you laughing?"

She jerked back a bit, her eyes narrowed. "No, I wasn't.." his faced dropped a little, and she shook her head. "No, it was funny, really it was," she said before she could stop herself.

His lips curled into that creepy Chesire Cat smile. "You are one twisted babe, I gotta hand it to you!"

There was a buzz from above, and Arkham's voice filled the room. "That's enough, Harleen. You can come back in now."

She sat for a moment, then stood up slowly, confused by the moment that had just ensued, by the feelings she had felt. She took the cartons and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on him at all times. "I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"

He nodded, an eyebrow raised. "Can't wait," he said, almost seductively.

She opened the great steel door and left the cell.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

"So he didn't kill you, who gives a shit?" Gordon said the moment she came out of the cell. "I see hardly any progress. The clown's been here for six months."

She shot him a hard glance. "I'm sorry, if you can do better, why don't you demonstrate?" She threw the cartons in a metal trash can in a huff. "Mr. J is the most complicated patient I've ever come across in all my time as a mental health professional, and quite honestly, I think I've done a fantastic job with what I've been given."

"Mr. J?" Yelled Gordon with disbelief. "You call that psycho Mr. J?"

"What am I supposed to call him, Jim? I'm trying to give him a sense of normalcy, but it's hard to do that when I don't know his real name. And until the idiots at your department ID him, Mr. J is the best I can do!"

There was a pause as they stared each other down.

Bruce cleared his throat. "I respect your work, Dr. Quinzell, really I do, but I'm afraid Commissioner Gordon is right," she looked at his dashing smile and melted a bit. "I haven't really seen much of an improvement."

She sighed and searched the floor for answers. "Alright, alright, let's show him the tape."

"Tape?" Asked Bruce.

Harleen nodded. "The tape of Joker's first session with me."


	2. First Session Transmission

TRANSMISSION DATE: 8/24/08 9:30 AM

PATIENT NAME: THE JOKER (aliases - NONE)

DISORDER: UNKNOWN. PATIENT SHOWS SIGNS OF SCHIZOPHRENIA, A SUPERIORITY COMPLEX, AND A TOTAL DISREGARD FOR HUMAN LIFE. POSSIBLE POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER, BUT AS PATIENT HAS REVEALED NOTHING ABOUT HIS PAST, NO DIAGNOSIS CAN BE MADE AT THIS TIME. HAS MADE NO PROGRESS SINCE ADMITTANCE.

ADMITTANCE DATE: 6/06/08

Door opens. Joker has been placed in straight jacket and lightly sedated. He sits at a table. There is an armed guard in the room.

DR. HARLEEN QUINZELL: Mr. J, my name is Dr. Quinzell. I'll be in sessions with you for the remainder of your time at Arkham.

JOKER: Have I killed too many of the other doctors to get a man?

DHQ: You've only killed one so far, actually. Dr. Perry has been transferred to the ICU. (PAUSE). I thought that would disappoint you. Anyway, I don't see what the problem is with having a female doctor.

J: Nothing, only that you'll succumb to my powers of seduction, and patient-doctor relations are strictly forbidden. (LAUGHS)

DHQ: I'll try to keep it in my pants.

J: A sense of humor. I like that! You know, the only reason I got all rough and tumble with those doctors is because they just didn't get me. But you...I can see you're going to be different.

DHQ: Mmmhmm, well that's something the both of us hope. That is my job, after all.

J: Who gets a job anyway? BORING!

DHQ: Do you think that careers are boring?

J: I think this straight jacket is boring.

DHQ: I'm sorry, it's a formality. I realize it's uncomfortable, but it's for your safety.

J: My safety? (LAUGHS) Toots, you better thank your lucky stars that I'm in this jacket, or that pretty face of yours would have been fileted from your cheekbones five minutes ago.

Dr. Quinzell looks completely unperturbed by his words.

DHQ: This violence you feel towards me - do you feel it towards women as a whole?

J: I feel it towards the human race as a whole.

DHQ: Well that's a pretty broad answer. Why don't we start with your childhood.

J: Didn't have one.

DHQ: You didn't just come out of thin air.

J: You don't want to know where I came from. It was dark. And moist. I resided there for nine months and before you could say 'prenatal' I just slid out. (LAUGHS)

DHQ: That's very clever, Mr. J. Speaking of which, might I ask what your real name is? Another formality, I'm afraid. It will certainly make this easier.

J: No it won't. You just want to crack the egg ain't never been cracked.

DHQ: We don't have to talk about it now. It's no problem.

J: What is a problem with you? Can we talk about your childhood? How about your mother? Your father? What's it like being a 'sane' person?

DHQ: It's not so bad. And my parents were loving individuals who just recently retired to Nantucket. I probably have a drinking problem, but that's another story for another day. What I really want to know is about you.

J: As fun as this is, I really need to be going. I have things to do, people to murder, you know, the old schtick.

Joker stands up and has somehow loosened the buckles of his straight jacket, which he gracefully glides out of. It lands on the floor in a pathetic heap.

GUARD: What the...hey!

The guard pulls the handgun he has kept in a holster. Harleen merely sits, massaging her temples as if annoyed with the situation.

DHQ: J, I'm going to have to ask you to sit down.

J: Sorry Quinzy, no can do.

Joker shuffles to the guard, who is clearly unnerved, and has clearly never used a gun on anyone but a target paper.

GUARD: Get back...y-y-you...FREAK!

DHQ: Benjamin, if you're going to use the gun, you need to do it soon, or it will be turned against you.

J: Listen to the good doctor, Benny.

There is a struggle as Joker wrestles it out of Benjamin's hands. Joker eventually wins, beating Benjamin into submission and pointing the gun at Dr. Quinzell, who sits motionless at the table. Joker comes back to his original position at the table, the gun pointed between her eyes.

DHQ: J, you must sit down. This can only end poorly for you.

J: (LAUGHS. SAYS SOMETHING UNRECOGNIZABLE TO THE HUMAN EARS.)

DHQ: I am not kidding you. If you don't get that gun out of my face, there's going to be a problem. Sit. Down.

J: Oh, you're all so tough in the face of danger. But you're nothing until you can _laugh_ in the face of danger. Like me.

He presses the gun to her forehead. There is a slight pause before she makes her move. She grabs his wrist and quickly pins it to the table, then uses that leverage to maneuver over the table and lands a kick to his jaw, then an elbow to his nose, breaking it instantly. At this point, his fingers release, and the gun is sent flying in the air. He falls on the ground, and she catches the gun with her arm raised. She lays a foot against his throat and presses down, pointing the gun at his head.

DHQ: Do you remember when I told you the straight jacket was for your protection? This is what I meant.

Dr. Arkham burst into the room with three more armed guards, a syringe in his hand. He bends down to the thrashing Joker and injects it into his neck. Joker immediately stops squirming, and his arms fall to his sides. Blood pours from his broken nose as his eyes glaze over and his head falls back slightly.

DR. ARKHAM: Jesus Quinzell, why don't you just kill him while you're at it?

DHQ: And let this challenge pass me by? Please. Let's have another session tomorrow.

She empties the magazine from the gun and examines it. Arkham looks at her suspiciously, then shakes his head and stares down at the Joker.

DA: Alright, let's move him before he chokes! Out, out, everyone out!

END TRANSMISSION


	3. Schizophrenic Clown Girl

"Is there anything specific you wanted to talk about today?"

"What did you have in mind?"

Harleen smoothed her blonde hair back and stared at the Joker, her blue eyes boring into his steely grays. She had another one of those throbbing headaches, the kind that never went away, no matter how many pills she took. "It's up to you, Mr. J. Anything at all, cards on the table, balls to the wall."

He let out a little laugh. "So edgy, Dr. Quinzell!" He pitched his voice low in a tone that resembled Dr. Arkham's. "Whatever are we going to do with you?" He laughed again, letting the booming sound fill the room.

She smiled half-heartedly. "That's funny. You sound just like him."

"Look, I don't really want to talk about myself today. It's boring, I'm tired of doing it. I want to talk about you," he said, his fingers on point on the table. "I want to know what goes on behind those little - " he raised his hands to her eye-level, so that she could see their broadness, their power, "those pretty blue eyes."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. What would you like to know?"

"You know, the usual. Where'd you grow up, why'd you get into this profession," he paused for a minute as his lips curled into a smile, "your drinking problem, the alter-ego you're working so hard to suppress, the way you get turned on when I laugh."

She looked up at him with eyes narrowed. "None of that is any of your business."

"Aren't you supposed to indulge me? Isn't that how the patient-doctor relationship works? You said we could talk about anything."

There was a pause. They sat motionless, staring at each other from across opposite ends of a stainless steel table. It was dead silent, unnervingly silent. Something in her stirred, something that shouldn't have been there. Her breathing increased ever so slightly, a motion that he picked up on immediately, his smile widening. She could feel that heat rising up in her chest, the uncontrollable urge to do something. But what was it? A sputter escaped from her lips, and her vision seemed to tunnel a bit.

A feeling of panic spread over her as she reached into her lab coat pocket, desperately reaching for a pill bottle that wasn't there. Where were her pills? Where the FUCK were her pills? She felt dizzy as the room spun in a frenzy of colors and voices, voices that were only in her imagination, and she knew it. Above all this was the sound of the Joker, laughing manically, pounding a hysterical hand on the table. She swallowed and tried to focus, but was nothing she could do. It was going to come out. SHE was going to come out.

Blackness filled her vision for a few seconds, but when she recovered, it was with a snap.

She laughed, loud and boisterously, the manic sound filling the room. It was so uncharacteristic of the calm and collected doctor that even the Joker was taken aback for a split second.

Her eyes seemed to grow a little darker as she looked at him from under her raised brow, trying to control herself. "If you must know, Mr. J," she said in a voice that sounded like her own, but different somehow, "my drinking problem is a staple of my existence. God bless the Russians for creating such a quality product in vodka." She laughed again, and so did he. "I get turned on when you laugh because it is so damn sexy, I could explode at this goddamned table. I could get off on that alone, if you did it for long enough," she removed her lab coat and stood up, folding it over the chair. She unbuttoned the first three buttons on her blouse, coming around the table at him. He looked up at her with wild eyes, ready to devour her. She straddled him on the seat. "And there is no alter-ego. There is only Harley Quinn."

He ran a hand up her torso. "Now we're cooking with gas."

Their fun was cut short as the sound of those polished loafers burst through the door. "Harleen, what the HELL are you doing?"

Immediately, Dr. Quinzell sprang back into reality. She peered down at the Joker, whose hand was in her shirt by now, his face spread in a lustful smile. She grimaced and immediately dismounted, touching a hand to her pounding temple.

"I...I don't know what happened..." She said, staring around the room. "I must have...I don't know..."

"Alright, you're done for the day. Pick up your things and go home," said Arkham, his face enraged.

The Joker laughed. "'I told you a long time ago this therapist wasn't going to work out," he threw his head back. "The scars. They're lady killers."

His laughter echoed in her ears as she hurried out of the room, her lab coat and files in tow.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Back home, Harleen leaned over her bathroom sink, splashing cold water in her face. She stared into the mirror, looking at the woman who stared back at her. Her eyes were sunken in. She looked pale, peaky and sick. She opened the mirror to her medicine cabinet, taking out a large orange pill bottle inside.

"Palideridone palmitate, my best friend," she said to no one in particular, taking out two pills and shoving them in her mouth, swallowing them without water. She let her head fall back for a moment, closing her eyes and letting the warm feeling she always got rush over her. She opened her eyes and closed the medicine cabinet.

But there was someone else in the mirror.

Someone who looked like her, but wasn't.

"Had a little trouble with me today, did we?"

Harleen inched forward so her face was inches away from the mirror. Her reflection, or rather, the woman who was her but wasn't, was talking to her.

"That's right," said Harley Quinn with a laugh, "take it in. I'm talking now, you fucking schizophrenic."

Harleen shook her head. "No you're not, you're just a figment of my imagination. And now that I've taken my pills, this will all go away."

Harley laughed again, the same laugh that had filled the room just hours earlier in the Joker's cell. "This ain't going away, sweetheart," she ran her hands down her body seductively. "If you really wanted this to go away, you'd have gotten help a long time ago."

"I'm fine," Harleen said, running her hands through her hair and taking a deep breath. "I've got this under control. That's why I have these pills."

"You're way past pills, sweetheart. You're as crazy as your patients, and you know it, don't you?" More laughter. "Which was evident today with that little outburst in Mr. J's cell."

"That was...I don't know what that was," said Harleen. "But what I do know, is that I'm talking to my reflection right now, and in a few minutes, the drugs will kick in and this will all go away."

"How many times are you going to say that? Geez, you're like a broken record."

"Shut up."

"RELAX! This is the best damn thing that's ever happened to you. What more could you ask for? I'm you, but improved. I'm willing to do all the things that you never could do. For example..." she smiled mischeviously, "straddle Mr. J in his chair today. I bet that got his attention. The attention you wanted, but didn't know how to get."

"Go away Harley, this is my mind and I want you out of it."

"It's not your mind any more, it's mine. And you're going to find that out in due time." She laughed, and was gone.

Harleen's eyes glazed over as she felt her head whirl, and she fell to the ground and passed out.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

She awoke to the telephone ringing loudly, boring a hole into her already damaged skull. She was laying on the bathroom floor, her arms folded under her lamely, her mouth slightly bloody from the fall. Her vision was blurry, and she unsuccessfully tried to rub the blur from her eyes.

RING. RING.

She sighed, trying to at least get to all fours. It was going to be quite a chore to stand up, if she could at all. She wiped the dripping blood from her mouth, checking to make sure her teeth were all still there. She got to her knees and looked in the mirror, looking for the ghost that called itself Harley Quinn.

It was gone.

She collapsed back to the floor, resolving to let the phone go to the answering machine. She laid on the ground, staring up at the ceiling and wondering just how she got so fucked up.

"_Hi, you've reached Dr. Harleen Quinzell. Leave me a message and I'll get back with you_."

There was a beep. She swallowed, sputtering and coughing on the floor.

"_Hi Harleen, it's Bruce Wayne,_" she sat up quickly, startled by the dashing Mr. Wayne's sudden interest in her. There was a rush of blood to her head, and she laid back down, moaning. "_Listen, if you're not busy tomorrow I was hoping we could get together and have coffee or something. You know, and discuss professional matters_," she could tell he was smiling. "_Just give me a call back. Hope you can come. Bye._"

The machine clicked and beeped again. A light went off in her overly-crowded head. Bruce Wayne was the picture of normalcy, right? Just a really, really normal-ass guy. Maybe if they got together, she wouldn't be as crazy...

_You and I both know things don't work that way, idiot. You're a nutjob, through and through. Besides, you're in love with the clown._

Harleen stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it around a bit."Harley, stop talking. You're not going to ruin this for me."

_Whatever. Bitch._


	4. The Last Two Pills

Harleen's arm slowly slid up to wave at the man in the coffee shop window across the street. She looked fabulous, as usual, perhaps a little too fabulous for a casual meeting for coffee. She looked down at her watch - two hours to get this relationship started off right. He smiled warmly, showing a set of brilliant pearly white teeth.

_Well, he's good looking enough. Personally, I'd rather see him with his brains splattered across our bedroom wall._

She shook her head slightly, stared down at the sidewalk and turned away from him for a second. "Shut up Harley, this isn't your time to speak. And stop making yourself a partner all the time - OUR bedroom? No, it's MY bedroom, and nothing you say is going to change that."

There was the ringing of laughter inside her head - Oh God, the laughter. It never seemed to stop.

She pressed a hand to her throbbing temple and quickly crossed the street, the sound of her black boots clicking on the asphalt. A taxi cab screeched to a halt inches in front of her, its driver laying on the horn. "Hey lady, it's rush hour, get the hell out of the way!"

Harleen's vision went dark for a second as blood and rage rushed to her head. Harley didn't hesitate; this was her chance, and she wasn't going to miss it. It was her time to take control.

"Get out of the car," she said calmly in that ping-y voice of hers. "Get out of the car, and I'm going to kill you. I am going to rip out your tongue, wrap it around your throat, and strangle you with it, then laugh as you squirm around." She threw her head back in wild and manic laughter. "You'll look just like something out of Hellraiser." She slammed her hand down on the hood. "GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

The man looked at her with wide eyes, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, not budging.

"Does the little boy need a little help?" She said in falsetto. She smiled darkly, starting around to the driver's window. He gasped, and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, high-tailing it out of her way before she could make good on her threat. She watched him drive away through what seemed like two different sets of eyes - the psychopath's and Harleen's.

Harleen shook her head and stopped for a moment, regaining control over her hi-jacked mind. There was a line of stopped cars now, all laying on their horns and yelling obscenities. She quickly made her way across the street, running a cool hand over her hair.

"What the hell did you think you were doing? You could have gotten us in a lot of trouble!"

_Stop making yourself a partner all the time - US in trouble? I could have gotten ME in trouble, not that I really care. Or do you want to be a partner now?_

"Please, don't flatter yourself."

She opened the glass door to the coffee shop, made her way over to Bruce, and sat down across from him.

"Cab drivers can be rude around here, I know from experience," he said, his smile faltering a bit. He looked a little suspicious of her, of the scene she had made out front.

She opened her purse and took out her pills, popping two in her mouth and swallowing them with his half-gone latte. "They all need to go to anger management," she said, setting his drink down apologetically. "Every last one of them."

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

"Are you sure you have to go back to work? I mean, I could make a phone call. You could take the rest of the day off."

Harleen stared out the window as she slid her pants back on, her thighs tired from her romp with Bruce. "I'd like to, but I have too many sessions to finish today. One with the Joker. Can't miss that one."

_No, that one's important. Although, I'm not sure how well J will respond when he smells another man's sweat on you._

She rolled her eyes, careful not to let him see. She buttoned up her shirt, tucking it into her pants, then turned around to face him. She smiled half-heartedly, running a hand through her hair to straighten it out a bit.

He let out a little laugh, standing up with the sheet wrapped around his naked waist. "If I've done something wrong, please tell me. I thought everything was going pretty well."

She picked up her purse and headed towards the door. "Everything was going pretty well, it's just that..."

_You feel guilty._

"...I feel guilty."

He closed the gap between them, his charming smile as dazzling as ever. "Why would you feel guilty? There's nothing wrong with what we did."

She shook her head, her face set in an expressionless state. "No, it's not that, it's just that I..."

_You're seeing someone else. And things are going well._

"I'm seeing someone else. And things have been going pretty well."

_Yeah, and his name starts with a J, and ends in an O-K-E-R._

"And his name starts with a...nevermind."

She reached for the door handle, but he stopped her. "Is something wrong, Harleen? You seem a little...I don't know, distracted."

She sighed and looked into his face, his handsome face, his handsome face that was clearly hurt by the way she was acting. She saw all this, and she felt...nothing. "There's nothing wrong Bruce, I just haven't really been feeling like myself lately. I have to get going."

He grabbed her wrist. "Listen, I'm hosting a party Saturday...it's for some friends, a fundraiser-type thing, whatever," he waved his arms around and rolled his eyes. "But I'd really like for you to be there. Even if you bring this guy, I'd still love to see you." He stared deep into her eyes with genuine care.

_Ritzy parties aren't really J's thing, but sure, maybe I'll bring him and we can put you out of your misery. Hopefully in a horribly messy and violent way._

Harleen rolled her eyes at the voice again, not realizing what it looked like to Bruce. She grabbed the door knob and put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry Bruce, but it's just not going to work. I have more baggage than you could ever imagine." Her voice was gentle, trying to let him down easy. Even so, she felt absolutely no sympathy for his pain.

She hurried out, realizing with horror how late she was for her session with J.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Back at Arkham, Harleen punched her card hurriedly, running into her office and pulling out her files in a frenzy. She opened her desk drawer with such ferocity that it almost came flying off its track. For some reason, she didn't want to miss this session, not a single moment of it. As much as she didn't want to admit it, there was something about him, something she couldn't place.

_You're in love, admit it._

"No, I'm not."

She was just about to leave when she heard voices coming from the next room over - Dr. Arkham's office. Voices that were talking about her. She pressed an ear to the paper thin walls, suddenly forgetting about the belated session.

"...Harleen is an incredible doctor, don't get me wrong, but I just can't have her handling these patients anymore."

"I completely understand, Dr. Arkham, and let me just say again how ecstatic I am to be hired by such an esteemed professional like yourself."

She swallowed and closed her eyes, inching her way out of the office and towards J's cell. _You turn your ass back around and see what's going on in that goddamned office._

She stopped and swallowed hard once again, then, as if Harley had taken over, she turned around and started creeping toward Arkham's office. "Harley," she said, "you've made the right decision for once, but please, just let me do the talking."

_Fine. But if you fail, I'm killing them both._

She inched around the corner and pushed the office door open. Dr. Arkham sat at his desk, his face relaxed in such a way that she rarely saw. Across the desk sat a man she had never seen before in the token white lab coat that was typical of all doctors at Arkham. He was young-looking, and his face was pock-marked with deep acne scars. His mousy brown hair was combed over his head as if he was prematurely balding, and his clothes were entirely too tight for him. He turned around as she came in, giving a saccharine smile that was enough to make Harleen vomit.

"Harleen," said Dr. Arkham, "this is Dr. Stewart Fischer. He's our new team member."

Fischer stood up and extended a hand towards Harleen. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I assure you all your patients will be handled with care. No hard feelings, I hope."

She stared at him blankly. "...hard feelings...my patients?"

Arkham stood up and came around the desk. "I'm sorry, I haven't told her yet Stewart."

"Told me what? What are you talking about?"

"The board of directors and I have had a discussion about your methods with your patients...and we've decided to go in a new direction," said Arkham, not at all with regret. "And that new direction is with Fischer."

"My methods? Is this some kind of a joke? I've done better with these patients than anyone ever has, and you're telling me that it's not enough?" She threw up her arms and paced back and forth. "I mean, if there's anyone who can attest to that, it's the Joker. No one's been able to handle him, what makes you think this officious little prick boy-scout can?"

Stewart looked taken aback and deeply offended. "Look, I'm sorry if your, what shall we say, _affair _with that homicidal maniac has gotten you taken off his case, but it certainly isn't MY fault."

_I'd like to take a sledgehammer to his face._

There was a pause. "Is that what this is about?" Harleen asked quietly. "You think I'm having an affair with the Joker?"

Arkham exhaled audibly, staring down at the floor. "I'm sorry Harleen, but I don't know what else to think after yesterday afternoon. You'll still be in charge of the lower-profile patients in the C Ward, but I can't have you near any of Gotham's Most Wanted."

She put her hands on your hips. "Listen to me. If I had wanted to deal with punk-ass kids whose worst crimes were setting a couple of empty houses on fire, I wouldn't have come here. I am NOT wasting my time and my talent on them. You can't do this to me!"

"I'm sorry Harleen. But this is how it has to be." He sat back down at his desk. "Finish up your last session with the Joker, then you can come back and clean up your office."

"You're taking my office away now, too?"

"It's MY office now," said Fischer smugly. "You won't be needing it with all your 'punk-ass kid' patients."

She shot him a look that would cripple any other human being, and he smiled. She turned and left.

J: What do you mean you're not coming back?

DHQ: Just like I said, I'm not coming back. They've replaced me with some idiot rookie doctor who I'm sure you'll have begging for death in five minutes.

J: (LAUGHS) Harley, you make me laugh.

DHQ: Thanks.

PAUSE.

DHQ: So...have you learned anything about yourself since you've been with me?

J: That I'm a sociopath with a total disregard for human life and I show symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder. I read it on your sheet.

DHQ: I guess that's something.

J: You know what I like about you, Harley? You don't try to force anything. You just...do things. You get me.

J reaches a scarred hand across the table and takes hers, and she doesn't move away but instead lets him hold it.

DHQ: Apparently I don't 'get you' enough. That's why I'm leaving.

J: (LAUGHS) I just had a thought of you without clothes on.

DHQ: You almost got to see that the other day.

J: It's a shame we were so rudely interrupted. (PAUSE) You know Harley, maybe you should just...I don't know, get rid of Fischer.

DHQ: What are you suggesting?

J: Kill him.

DHQ: Are you insane?

J: Yes.

DHQ: ...fair enough. But honestly, I can't...there's no way I could possibly...

J: Commit a crime like that?

DHQ: Exactly

J: I know you couldn't. But somewhere in there is someone that could.

J takes a pill bottle from his jumpsuit pocket and shakes it in front of her face. Her eyes widen as she seems to recognize it from somewhere.

DHQ: ...how did you get those?

J: I'm a tricky man, you know that.

DHQ: Ok, just...hand them over...please.

J: No. I'd rather watch Dr. Harleen Quinzell implode.

Before she can stop him, he opens the bottle and pours ever pill but two in his mouth, laughing hysterically as he does it.

DHQ: WHAT THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT FOR? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO ME IF I DON'T TAKE THOSE?

J: (TRYING TO CONTAIN LAUGHTER) Oh no, Harley's mad! Yes, I know exactly what happens, I've seen it undressing itself and writhing around in my lap.

He slides the remaining white pills across the table at her. She is breathing quickly, her chest heaving up and down. She grips the table, her brow furrowed.

J: You know what they've done to you, and you know it's time to get even. Unleash the Harley Quinn. Let her off her chain. Or be a flight of stairs under their feet, the choice is yours.

She staggers to her feet and takes the white pills and studies them.

DHQ: I...I have to go home...

He laughs manically and licks his lips as she barely makes it to the door, shoving one pill down her throat quickly.

END TRANSMISSION

Harleen studied herself in her bathroom mirror again, her wobbly arms barely supporting her weight. She had taken the pill, sure, but it was only enough for the drive home. Soon Harley would be back, laughing in her face and shouting obscenities at the world around her. She waited.

It wasn't long before her face began to distort ever so slightly, her eyes grow darker, her thoughts more violent.

"Harleen! You're looking haggard this evening," Harley snickered, a smug look on her face. "Have we thought about J's proposition?"

Harleen shook her head. It was all she could manage.

Harley threw her head back in a belly-laugh. "Yes you have. I can see it in your eyes. Also, in your thoughts, which I hear. All the time."

Harleen sunk a little, her body growing weaker.

Harley's expression faltered a bit. "Alright, listen babe. I don't like you, and you don't really like me. But right now, we've got a situation on our hands."

Harleen took the remaining pill from her lab coat pocket and studied it.

"You and I both know you don't want to do that."

Harleen looked up at Harley blankly.

"That little piece of shit has YOUR job and YOUR patients, namely one Mr. J. And you don't like that. And neither do I. You're a good doctor Harleen, but you don't know how to take a life. I do."

Harleen put the pill in her mouth, but didn't swallow, contemplating Harley's words.

"Think. Think of that imbecile's last thoughts as a hot bullet enters his skull right between the eyes. He won't be needing your office anymore. All he'll be needing is a new change of underpants."

There was a pause, the Harleen opened her mouth and let the white pill fall out.

Harley smiled slyly, her eyes darkening sinisterly.

"That's a good girl. You know what we have to do now, don't you?" On its own, her medicine cabinet opened up, revealing a tube of black lipstick. Harleen grabbed it and spread it across her lips, her vision fading to black as Harley laughed hysterically.


	5. Goodbye, Stewart

Harley's boot heels clicked across the asphalt parking lot, her red leather trench coat fluttering around them. She looked around - a Bentley here, a Rolls Royce there, hundreds of cars that were worth more than her apartment.

_What a crime to waste such beautiful things on an asshole like Stewart Fischer. What is he doing in this part of town anyway?_

"We're not here to worry about the glitz, Harleen. Now keep quiet, I've got a job to do." She tapped a finger to the handgun strapped to her thigh. It felt hot against her skin, as if it were meant to be there, as if it were a part of her. Her black lips spread wide across her face. This was well worth the wait to get out of Harleen's imagination.

She trudged towards the bar on the other side of the parking lot, mussing her hair up with her red-gloved hand. She stretched a coiled strand to eye level and smiled, recalling with pride how she had taken the kitchen shears to it an hour earlier, leaving half of her blonde locks in the bathroom sink. It looked good. Damn good.

When she got to the door, a large bouncer held out a hand. "The front entrance is for listed guests only. If you're not on the list, you gotta wait in line." He pointed around the corner to a line of young shivering girls in outfits skimpier than hers, a line that was at least a mile long.

He turned his gaze back towards her a laughed. "Besides, I'm not sure our clientele is interested in having a clown girl in..." he gestured to her with disbelief, "...leather underwear running around their bar."

She smirked a little, deftly laying a hand to her thigh and taking the safety off the gun. She pressed her body into him and her lips to his ear. He tensed, but did not move. "If you let me in for just fifteen minutes, I promise you, when I come back out here, I'll make it worth your while." She gently slid a hand over his crotch, and she felt it harden slightly.

He raised his eyebrows and stepped aside, his gaze locked with hers. "Welcome to Sand Bar."

She took her hand from the gun and smiled seductively, then blew him a kiss as she left his presence.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Harley stepped inside, scanning the dark room for any sign of Stewart Fischer. It was dark save the strobe lights and lazers that flashed across the crowded dance floor, highlighting the writhing bodies that packed every inch of it. She rolled her eyes and let her hand drift down to the gun once more, slowly sliding it out of its holster.

_No, Harley. That's not how we do things._

"Who are you to tell me what to do?"

_I'm what's left of your rationality. Look..._

Harleen briefly took control and turned Harley's head towards the bar. There, in a crowd of infinitely more powerful and attractive men, was Stewart Fischer, his clammy hand coiled around a vodka martini.

She smiled again, adjusted her black bustier and made her way towards the bar. She tapped Stewart on the shoulder, and he spun his bar stool around, his eyes having trouble finding her for a few seconds. "I'm sorry," he said, giving her the up-down look, "do I know you?" His eyes were bloodshot, and his breath wreaked of alcohol.

_This is going to be easier than you thought, Harley. Good. _

Harley smiled, half at Harleen, half at Stewart. "I should think so. Dr. Harleen Quinzell. We met this afternoon."

He laughed, waving his arms and spilling his martini. "Harleen! Right, the one that's in love with the Joker! Hey everyone," he said, gesturing to his millionaire friends, "this is that crazy girl I was talking to you about before, the one that's fucking the clown!" He made a crude gesture to represent intercourse, but the businessmen barely noticed him, instead going back to their drinks. He looked back at her. "They're busy," he said, clearly un-fazed by his own stupidity.

She laughed. "Obviously. Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for the way I acted this afternoon. It was completely unprofessional of me." She grabbed his tie and pulled him in seductively. "But you have to understand, it's hard for me to express myself when I'm on the verge of exploding in my pants."

He swallowed hard, his eyes focused on her cleavage. "Really?" He asked dumbly. "Y-y-you really thought I was attractive?"

She nodded. "Just about the most attractive I've seen. It made me hot, to see a big strong man like you take control of what was rightfully yours."

He ran a hand down the satin of her waist-line, resting it on her buttocks. "Well, in that case...maybe we should get out of here." He waved the bartender over and paid the tab, then stood up on wobbly knees. "Maybe you should drive," he said in horribly slurred speech.

She ran a finger down his chest. "Oh Stew, I didn't drive."

He swallowed. "Well, maybe we should call a cab. I don't think I should be driving."

She laughed. "Don't worry. You won't be."

She led him through the bar, through the sweating bodies on the dance floor, through the VIP room, through a group of men she recognized as Mafia cronies. He said nothing, all the time oogling her curvaceous body, reaching out to touch and stumbling over. She looked back at him and giggled, keeping her grip tight around his wrist. They fought their way through a crowded hallway, then up a flight of stairs, then into another deserted hallway. She dragged him to the end of the hallway to a metal door, thick with chipped paint and the bloody handprints of some unfortunate slob.

She pushed the door open to an ally way, empty and frozen. Broken glass and bullet shells lined the pavement, and an empty dumpster was pushed to the side of the building. From the time they stepped outside, it was clear that people were only brought here for two things: to be killed, and to be discarded.

She spun him around and pinned him against the brick wall of the building, letting him feel her hot breath against his neck. He moaned a bit, letting out a slurred word that sounded vaguely like Harleen's name. She let a hand snake around to his backside and removed the money from the wallet in his pocket and put it into her own.

She pulled away from him suddenly to get a good, last look at him before he was a bloody mess on the ground. His lustful eyes took her in, and he sighed. "Why'd you stop? We were just getting started."

"Sorry," she said, removing her jacket and throwing it to the ground, "but like you said, I'm fucking the clown."

She leapt up and kicked her legs up, letting one fan across his face. His head bounced back and hit the wall, his nose gushing blood from a sickening crack. He let out a yelp and sank a bit, but she gave him no time to recover. She grabbed his tie and threw him to the ground, leaping on top of him and pinning his arms down with her knees. Her hands curled into fists as she brought them down upon his already damaged face, each punch creating a new fracture, his face slowly sinking backwards into his head. She stopped, studying the blood that stained her gloves, and let out a little sputter. She threw her head back and laughed, a piercing and frightening sound that echoed through the ally.

Stewart made a gurgling noise, reaching a hand to her face and lightly slapping her, trying desperately to fight back. She grabbed his arm and bent it back at a sickening angle, breaking it instantly, and let it fall back down to the pavement. Just to be sure, she took his left arm and performed the same maneuver.

She studied what was left of his face - the sunken nose, the missing teeth, the two bulging eyes - and let out another laugh. She stood up, panting and admiring her handiwork.

"You know Stewart," she said, barely able to contain her laughter, "I never thought you were attractive," she grabbed her trench coat and took a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the pocket and stuck one in her mouth, "but right now, you just look..." She made an "OK" symbol with her fingers as he let out another bloody gurgle. She sat down on his body and stared down at him, blowing the smoke from between her lips. "Cigarette?" She asked. Stewart, of course, said nothing.

She took a long draw from the cigarette, and slowly exhaled. "I've really enjoyed our chat Stew, but I'm afraid I've got to get going. You see, now that you'll be dead and all, there'll be all kinds of paperwork to fill out on YOUR patients, which were formerly MY patients...which...are now..." she paused, trying to make sense of exactly what she was saying.

Fischer let out what could only be described as a sob, then vomited all over Harley's boots.

She stared down at her feet in enraged disbelief. "You...you son of a bitch! These are Christian Louboutin boots! They weren't cheap you know! Especially with my reduced paycheck as a psychologist in the C Ward. Not that that really matters anymore." She took the last draw on her smoke, then stubbed it out on the pavement and threw it in the dumpster. She stood up and took the gun from its holster, thumbing the hammer back and aiming it between his eyes. "Goodbye Stewart."

There was a flicker of pressure on the trigger as she put two bullets in his head, the silencer making a barely audible pop for each shot. Gore hit the pavement under his head in a messy arc, spraying out in all directions.

She stared down at his body and took a deep breath, letting it slowly expel from her lungs. For a moment, she was two people wedded into one body, not just Harley, but Harleen as well. She shuddered, then picked up her trench coat, and left.


	6. Who You Really Are

_Repress and restrain  
Steal the pressure and the pain  
Wash the blood off your hands  
This time she won't understand_

Change in the air  
They'll hide everywhere  
No one knows who's in control

You're working so hard  
And you're never in charge  
Your death creates success  
Rebuild and suppress

Change in the air  
And they'll hide everywhere  
And no one knows who's in control 

Muse, _Ruled By Secrecy_

The morning after she killed Fischer, Harleen awoke with a pounding headache. She opened her eyes slowly to her un-drawn shades, squinting painfully under their harsh light. Her body felt as if she had been hit by a truck - she moved her arm to the nightstand, realizing all too late how much pain the action put her in. With all of her strength, she turned the clock to face her- it was 12:30 PM, hours past when she would normally get up, even on a Saturday. She groaned, covering her eyes with her arm, comforted at least by the thought that she didn't have to go to work today.

_I don't know what you're so happy about. With Fischer dead, you've got Mr. J all to yourself again._

Harleen's eyes snapped open at Harley's interjection, then closed again at the boring pain that filled them. She grabbed the spare pillow next to her and covered her face with it.

_You're not trying to kill yourself now, are you? That would be just like you! Just when we're starting to have all kinds of fun, you're committing suicide!_

Harleen let out a long groan. "I'm not trying to kill myself! I just...had a little TOO much fun last night."

She thought about Fischer, what was left of his bloody face collapsing under her fists, the way his brains had looked splattered all over the pavement, the way his last moments had been that of total and unrelenting horror. She didn't want to, but to think of him, the man she had hated so much just hours before, as helpless and frightened beyond his wit's end, well it...it made her smile.

She felt Harley smile inside her as well, giggling gleefully picturing him in her mind's eye. _That was some party, wasn't it?_

"Yeah Harley, I've gotta hand it to you. You really know how to throw 'em."

Her thoughts were shattered by the ring of the telephone. The sound rattled her brain, sending shooting pains every which way through her skull. She let out another grunt, feeling around her nightstand blindly for the receiver. Found it.

She pressed it to her ear. "Hello?" She asked groggily.

"Harleen, it's Jim Gordon."

The voice was apathetic and condescending as usual, but frightened her into a limp state.

_Focus, Harleen. Whatever you do, don't panic._

She swallowed nervously, but put on an unconcerned air as usual. "Jim. Is this important? I was in the middle of my beauty sleep."

He sighed exasperatedly, his breath rattling into her ear. "Harleen, if it wasn't important, do you think I'd be standing on your doorstep waiting for you to buzz me up?"

She sat up with a start. He knew. He knew, and he was going to come arrest her.

_Stop it. He doesn't know a god damn thing. Let him up._

She took a deep breath, careful not to let her voice shake. "Fine," she said coolly, "but don't expect me to be dressed and hospitable." She pressed the buzzer at the bottom of the phone, then hung up, leaping out of bed and pacing around the room.

"What the fuck am I going to do? He knows Harley. Somewhere along the way, we got careless - we must have left a finger print or a piece of hair or something..."

_Relax, Harleen. I can almost guarantee he doesn't know a thing. And even if he does, DNA tests don't come back that fast, we both know that. There's plenty of time to skip town before they do._

Harleen sighed and stopped in her tracks. "You're right. You're totally right. I'll just...feign ignorance and everything will be...fine."

_That's right. You know, if you're really that stressed, there's still some coke left in the bathroom._

"WHAT?"

_Alright, alright, slow down, I stole a little coke. You might want to get rid of it before Gordon gets up here..._

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

_Oh good, he's already here._

Harleen flew into the bathroom, flinging the door open and shouting, "Just a minute!" Sure enough, next to her credit card, were two lines of white powder and an empty plastic baggie on the counter top.

"What the fuck Harley? What am I supposed to do with this?" She asked in a hushed whisper.

_I don't know, snort it? It's high quality shit, there's no sense in wasting it. _Her indifference toward the situation was maddening.

Harleen paused for a brief second as Gordon knocked again. In a rush, she brushed the powder and baggie into the toilet, flushing it with such a force she cut her hand. She ran from the bathroom and to the door, taking a moment to catch her breath. Slowly, she unlocked the door and opened it.

"Jim," she said, no trace of her previous hustle, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"

He looked at her sternly and pushed into her apartment, a movement that unnerved her a bit. She shut the door behind him, saying nothing as he looked under her bed, in her closets, in her cabinets.

"I'm sorry, what exactly are you doing? You can't go through my things without a warrant," she said, following closely behind him.

_I left the gun in your nightstand. If he gets too grabby...you know what we have to do._

"You were the one who said not to panic," Harleen whispered.

"What?" Asked Gordon, spinning around to face her.

She smiled at him, the kind of smile you would give the mentally handicapped, and shook her head. "Nothing. Anyway, what exactly is this about again?"

He sighed. "I'm not going through your things to search for contraband, I'm doing it for your protection. I'm looking for him. Or signs of him anyway."

She cocked her head, letting her hands slide down from her hips. "...what are you talking about?"

His arms flew up exasperatedly. "Don't you watch the news? Or have you been on too much of a bender to have turned on the TV today?"

She raised her eyebrows. "What are you suggesting?"

He shook his head, going back to his search. "The Joker broke out of Arkham last night. He was completely unarmed. There's no doubt in my mind that he had a little help."

A little surge of joy went through Harleen's body, but her demeanor remained cool and composed. "So why are you here, in THIS apartment?"

"Because he released a video tape to GCN this morning. And in it he...he was standing next to the bloodied corpse of Stewart Fischer." He shuddered a bit, hardly noticing the wide-eyed and confused look on Harleen's face. "He killed him. Savagely murdered him. And if he has some kind of pattern...like an agenda or something...you could be next."

She straightened up and swallowed. "Do you...do you know this for sure?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Why does it matter? The point is, you can't be here. You need to go somewhere safe before he finds you and beats you to death too."

She laughed, although it was nervous laughter. "He...he would never do that to me. I mean...I know that's hard to understand, but..."

Gordon looked genuinely concerned for once when in her presence. "You said yourself you didn't know what he was capable of doing. I mean...if it means staying at the station for a while, so be it."

_Right, we all know how well things turned out the last time J was at the station._

Harleen nodded, her brow furrowed. "Thank you Jim. Uh...for coming down and everything. I'm going to just...pack a bag really quick, and then...do you mind escorting me somewhere?"

He nodded. "Sure. It's really no problem. I'll leave you to it. Be in the hallway if you need me." He went to the door and left.

Harleen rushed around, picking up this and that, throwing her things hastily into a suitcase. "Harley, what the hell were you thinking? You broke him out?"

_Well...more like...helped him out._

"Whatever verb you want to use, it doesn't matter. This isn't...oh my God, what have you done? Do you know the kind of havoc he's going to wreak on this city?" She ran to the bathroom to pick up her toiletries.

_Oh Jesus Christ, he's a FRIEND! I needed to do something with the body, and he was more than willing to take care of it, and you were long since passed out, so I just took the liberty of doing everything myself. Don't you care that he took the fall for you? You got away with EVERYTHING! The murders, the coke, the stolen car, EVERYTHING! You need to stop bitching and start being grateful for everything I've done for us. I am the best thing that's ever happened to you, and you know it._

She paused. "Murders? Like plural?" She steadied herself against the wall and sank down to the floor. "Stolen car?"

Harley laughed. _You didn't think I was going to leave that parking lot without having a little fun, did you? Besides, I needed somewhere to stash the body of that stupid bouncer we were supposedly going to fuck when we left the club. _

Harleen's breathing was shallow, her eyes stinging with tears. "This...this has gone way too far..."

_Excuse me, as I recall, you were having a grand old time last night. Stand up, fool. Look at yourself in the mirror._

Harleen did as she was told, and realized with a start that she hadn't taken the time to look in the mirror yet today. Her hair had been cut to just under chin-length, and was curled and teased to an obscene amount, making her look like a mad scientist. The smokey eye make-up she had worn so perfectly the night before was smeared, running down her face in black streaks. Her mouth was adorned with black lipstick, and tiny flecks of blood, blood that wasn't her own, were splashed in her hair and on her forehead.

She didn't budge or scream, but studied herself closely.

_You are not a worker bee, Harleen. You're a renegade killer bee. This is who you are. This is who we are. There is no altar ego._

"There is only Harley Quinn," she finished aloud.

There was a pause as she took a good long look at herself in the mirror. She took a hand and wiped it across her reflection, making an "X" across the woman that was once Harleen Quinzell.

She shook her head to clear her mind, and took a deep breath. There was only one person she had to say goodbye to, only one she had to keep her humanity for for just a bit longer before she succumbed to the sociopath that she truly was.

She stepped out of the bathroom and took up the telephone receiver, her finger mechanically dialing the penthouse of Bruce Wayne.


	7. Confession and SMILE

"Bruce...it's Harleen."

"Harleen, oh my God, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine...I just - "

"Where are you? You need to get somewhere safe. Did you see the news? He's out there and - "

"Yeah, I know, I saw. Listen...can I meet you somewhere? Just for a while. I don't want to intrude, I know your fundraiser thing is in..less than an hour."

"It's no intrusion, I just want to know you're safe. You need...really, Harleen, you need to get out of Gotham."

"Yeah, I know Bruce, I know what's going on. Can I meet you at the restaurant or something?"

"Of course. You'll be safe with me. I promise."

"...sure. Right. Um...five minutes sound ok?"

"I'll be there in two."

"Whatever."

CLICK.

The squad car screeched to a halt in front of _Il Bello Piatto_, one of Bruce Wayne's many ventures into the culinary arts, skidding slightly on the wet pavement. Harleen fumbled for the door handle, but Gordon caught her wrist.

"Listen, Harleen," he said, sighing. "I know we've never been the greatest of friends, but...be careful. I know...I know you're fully capable of handling things yourself but...so is he."

She sighed and mussed up her mop of curly hair, squinting in pain at the boring pain that was making its way up the side of her temple. "I appreciate it Gordon, really I do, and I want you to know that...that..."

She happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Harley was sitting in the back seat, smiling viciously. She turned around slightly to clear her view of the mirror and thus Harley, but the clown girl did not disappear. She was right there, plain as day, flesh and blood. _Showtime, _she mouthed, tracing a butterfly knife from the corner of her mouth to her ear.

Gordon turned around quickly, perturbed by her sudden alertness. "What's wrong? Did you hear something?"

She grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face her, massaging her temple. "No, no, it's fine, it's just these headaches, they make me...hear...see...nevermind, don't worry about it. I'm sorry...I have to go." She opened the door and stepped into the pouring rain, then hurried around the car and into the restaurant.

It had taken them a half hour to get all the way uptown, and the first of the party guests had already arrived. She was hardly dressed for the occasion, and was in fact, soaking wet. She tossed her wet hair, leaving a puddle on the marble floor.

"Good," said a pingy voice, "now all the socialites will slip and fall on their rich asses."

Harleen turned her head slowly, not wanting to see, but unable to stop herself. Harley was standing next to her, wearing the blood soaked uniform from last night. "Alright look," said Harleen in a hushed whisper, "before we do this...this you and me...us...meshing...thing, I have to do something. So stay out of the way, and don't - "

"Harleen!"

Both women turned their head in the direction of the voice. Bruce Wayne was coming towards them in a tailor-made Armani suit, his polished dress shoes clicking on the floor. He took her in his arms and embraced her, far too tightly than was needed. "I was so worried..."

Harley moved to Bruce's back, raising the butterfly knife above her head and smiling sinisterly at Harleen.

"NO!" Harleen screamed.

Bruce jumped backward a bit, alarmed by her outburst.

"...uh...I don't want to get your suit wet," said Harleen tentatively. She touched a hand to her temple and realized that the moisture on her face wasn't just rain, but sweat. "Look, Bruce, I haven't got much time, and I need to tell you - "

"Why don't you sit down? You look terrible." He ushered her to the back of the restaurant to a deserted corner booth.

"Thanks, I guess." She sat and scooted to the inside, still dripping all over the suede seats. Bruce sat next to her and draped his arm around her, and Harley next to him, still clutching the knife.

"Can I get you anything to drink? I think you might need it." He reached for her hand subtly, but she pulled away before he could reach it.

"No, I don't want anything. I don't want to...make life harder than it already is." She closed her eyes and swallowed, squaring her shoulders off to face him. "I...I did a bad thing Bruce." She shook her head as Harley laughed. "No, scratch that, I've done bad _things_. Plural. And...I care about you enough to tell you that you...you don't want to get involved with someone like me."

He laid a gentle hand on her cheek and chuckled. "I know, Harleen. It's ok."

She looked at him, wide eyed. "You...you do?"

He nodded. "Arkham told me. But all of that's in the past. You haven't run around the desert as a contract killer for quite some time. You're a different person now."

He leaned in to kiss her, but she backed away abruptly. "No Bruce, no I'm not. I...something happened to me in Baghdad, and...I don't know what it was, but I brought something back with me. There is something...very, very wrong with me and...and no amount of pills or alcohol or self-medication is going to fix it. You have to understand, I killed a lot of people in Desert Storm and I think...I think that - "

Harley's laugh cut her short. "Don't try to rationalize it, Harleen. You're a cold-blooded killer, and you enjoyed that shit. LOVED it. He's not going to understand, no matter what you say. Get OVER IT!"

Harleen rested her head in her hands. "Bruce the point is that...I am not who you think I am." She looked him in the eyes and took his face in her hands. "I am someone else. This person you see in front of you...she's not real. I'm sick, Bruce. I am a raging schizophrenic, and I need to be dealt with delicately. Dr. Harleen Quinzell is an altar-ego to someone entirely different, someone you don't want to deal with, and it's something you wouldn't understand."

Something changed in him. His eyes became far off and dreamy, and sad. "No," he said slowly, "I understand. I...know what that's like." He stared down at the seat and sighed. "Do you...do you know where you'll go?"

She let her hands fall and rested them on his. "No," she said, "I don't. I'm afraid that's not really up to me. It's up to..."

"Mr. J," Harley finished for her.

Bruce looked up at her. "Who?"

Harleen sighed and laughed at what she was about to say. "God." She leaned in slowly and kissed his cheek. "Maybe...maybe if I ever get better, if life is kind to me," she sighed, "I'll come back for you."

She smiled, then left the restaurant.

Harley was back at Harleen's apartment, ransacking the drawers and closets for useful items. It was finished, over - Harleen Quinzell was no more than a figment of her imagination now, that annoying voice in her head that could be turned down or off, like the switch on a television. It was time to paint this town red and black, and she was just the clown to do it.

That is, once she found Mr. J.

She tore into the bathroom, searching for any white powder that might still cling to the counter tops, when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her uniform was splattered with blood, and her black eye make-up ran down her cheeks, her hair splayed out in all directions. She looked horrible, like some kind of children's doll that had been tortured in some macabre fantasy. But it wasn't enough.

Her eyes narrowed as she removed the butterfly knife from the strap around her left thigh. She held it in front of her, examining the razor sharp blade that gleamed under the fluorescent bulbs. She smiled darkly as she slowly slid the blade inside her mouth and to the corner. In one swift motion, she cut her cheek open, blood spraying the mirror in an arc. She screamed out in pain, which turned to wild laughter as blood ran down her chin and on to her chest. A moment's respite and she had cut the other side, blood now running from both sides of her face and pooling in the hollow part of her collarbone.

In the back of her mind, she heard Harleen screaming in anguish, horrified at what she had done to them.

Harleen laughed, ignoring the splitting pain that was now her face. "Don't worry Harleen. You can swallow over a liter of blood before you get sick and vomit everywhere." She licked her lips and swallowed, warm salty liquid sliding down her throat. "See?" She said, barely containing her laughter, "You're fine."

After a long time, when the bleeding and Harleen's pitiful gurgling screams had stopped, Harley flung the drawer open and quickly grabbed a needle and thread. She threaded the needle, and, without hesitation, pushed it through the bottom corner of the gash and through the top, then down through the bottom of the gash again. Flecks of blood dripped from the needle holes, staining the already soaked counter top.

When she had finished, her face resembled the laces of a tennis shoe, stuck in a perma-smile that rivaled the Joker's.

"Tell me the truth Harleen," she said, admiring her handiwork, "do I look ugly?" She threw her head back in manic laughter, Harleen's sobs only fueling the joke.


	8. Setting the Woods on Fire

"Mr. J!"

Harley squealed with delight as she closed the gap between the two of them, forcing her mouth into his so quickly it hurt. He let out a high pitched laugh as he wrapped an arm around her waist tightly, almost crushing her. She pulled back a little, touching a finger to the stitches that lined her cheek. "You like? I did it myself."

He grabbed her face with his middle finger and thumb, pulling it in closely to examine the scars. She yelped a bit, blood still dripping from the gash that he made no effort to skirt around. He smiled creepily, and slowly, he traced his tongue over the stitches, lapping up the blood that slid to her jawbone. There was a pause, then he pushed her away, turning his back on her and admiring the Gotham skyline.

"So," said Harley, confused by his sudden lack of attention, "what are we gonna do tonight?"

He licked his lips, laughing a bit. "Harley," he said, slowly turning around and smiling, "we are gonna have FUN!" He let out a manic laugh, and she smiled slyly, ignoring the pain that ignited her face.

Later that night, J was leading her across a deserted parking lot, his strong gloved hand gripping her wrist. She surveyed the area - it was what Harleen might call the "bad area of town." Empty warehouses lined the streets, each with more than its share of broken windows. The sound of police sirens and gun shots filled the air, and drug addled homeless men lined the streets.

Harley frowned. "What exactly are we doing here again?" She slowed down a tad, but his grip tightened as he yanked her along.

"I can't tell you, it will ruin the surprise," he said, his eyes glowing joyfully.

He stopped at the steel front doors of an old glue factory, a plastic tarp covering its once-being-remodeled scaffolding. He let go of her wrist, then clicked his tongue at her and pointed upwards at the only window in the place that wasn't broken. There was a faint light inside, and Harley assumed, people.

"Someone's squatting," she said, "who gives a shit?"

He laughed loudly at her ignorance. "Not just anybody, Harley. Behind that window are Gotham's best and brightest criminals. And when I say, 'best and brightest,' I mean, 'desperate and will work for anyone.'"

She raised her eyebrows at him, still not fully grasping the concept.

His smile faded, and he rolled his eyes dramatically. "Let's go."

He grabbed her wrist and led her up several flights of stairs, never showing a hint of fatigue along the way, panting only with excitement. After what seemed like forever, they reached a narrow hallway covered in dust and squirming with a pest problem. At the end of the hallway was the lit room, the glow of the light sending roaches scattering away. Men's voices filled the hallway, the shuffling of cards echoing against the brick walls. Without hesitation, J stepped into the light, Harley behind him. "Evening, gents," he said, licking his lips. "Sad to see a squirrelly bunch like you hiding out in the asshole of Gotham City. What's the problem? Too scared to go outside and play?" The room was mostly silent, save a jukebox playing rock music in the corner and the scuttle of roaches along the walls.

There were murmurs of dissent among the men, some of them laughing at his audacity to come and visit them. One stepped up, a large man with a ponytail and a pitted face. "Gordon's got just about all of your conspirators locked up for life. Not to mention we've still got the Bat to worry about. There ain't one decent criminal running around this city anymore. What exactly were we supposed to do?"

"Uh, I don't know, take a little initiative? What are you, four? You need someone to come and help you pull the thumbs out of your asses? Huh?"

"Listen here, clown," said another mean looking man, this one with a tattoo covering over half of his face, "you may be some murdering psychopathic whack-job, but we're not intimidated. There's ten of us and only..." he glanced over at Harley, "one of you, and some crazy bitch in the corner."

Harley removed her jacket, letting it fall down to her feet and stepping slowly to J's side. "Is that a tone of mutiny I hear, Mr. J?"

He put a hand out to stop her. "Easy, easy. Let's not blow our lids just yet." He licked his lips and ran a hand through his ratty green hair. "Alright, listen fellas, we don't want any trouble. Harley and I are starting a new...uh, operation I suppose, and wouldn't you know it, we're expanding. Fortunately, there are job and management opportunities for all of you, and if you cooperate, no one will get hurt."

The men laughed, and tattoo face spoke again. "Did you go soft in the head when you were in Arkham? Who exactly do you think we are? We know how your 'operations' go - no money, no honor, just the feeling that you've won something and that you won't be facing death by clown. Sorry, but we're not interested." He gestured over at Harley, pouring himself a bit of whiskey. "But as for your gal over there, well..." He downed the whiskey. "Facial deformities aren't usually my thing, but I haven't had any ass for a while. And seeing how yours is so...round and juicy..." He reached inside his jacket and produced a gun, coming at Harley menacingly. "What do you say, doll," he asked, the gun pointed at her, whiskey glass still in hand, "I'll give you the same deal the clown gave me. If you cooperate, no one will get hurt."

Harley looked over at J, who nodded and smiled at her, then winked.

There was a split-second pause as Harley smiled briefly at tattoo face. With one hand, she grabbed the gun and fanned her leg over to the side of his head, knocking him to the floor. She stomped a booted foot into the hand that held the whiskey glass, grinding razor sharp shards into his skin. He let out half of a scream, which was quickly ended with a bullet between the eyes.

She turned and pointed the gun at the men, who let out gasps and took more than a few steps back, some taking out their own weapons. "The point is, gentlemen," she said, smiling, "this ugly motherfucker was wrong. I'm not just any crazy bitch. I'm THE crazy bitch."

There was silence again, this time filled only by the flipping of plastic and the pressing of buttons. J was at the jukebox, reading a mumbling the titles of songs. A smile spread over his face as he let out a little gasp of joy. "This one's an oldie," he said, pressing the 'select' button with unnecessary force.

Harley looked over with joy as wailing steel guitars and the thump of acoustics came pouring out of the juke box. "_Setting the Woods on Fire, _Hank Williams! I love this song!"

J laughed manically, sliding towards her and kissing her. "Do you? Me too! I feel so much of Williams's work has been forgotten and thus underrated by the general consensus, therefore - "

Their moment was cut short by the sound of a bullet narrowly missing Harley's skull. She looked at the man and blinked, a tear falling down her cheek. "How could you? We were having a moment!"

He looked at her, a flicker of remorse in his eyes, and lowered his weapon. "I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - "

He was silenced as the gun was shot from his hand, breaking it instantly. It went sailing into another man's head, knocking him out and causing him to misfire his own weapon, which in turn found its way into the back of another man's head.

J looked over at Harley. "Did you plan that?"

She smiled. "Nope."

"I love ya, baby!"

She leapt and slid towards the gun on the floor, pointing both of her weapons at the remaining men, who stared at her in wonder, their confidence more than visibly shaken. "So," she said, "does anyone else want to play? Or do we have a deal?" She cocked the gun in her left hand. "Because I am more than willing to splatter your brains all over this place. That way, you can keep the roaches company." She threw her head back and laughed hysterically, as did J.

_Comb your hair and paint and powder  
You act proud and I'll act prouder  
You sing loud and I'll sing louder  
Tonight we're setting the woods on fire  
You my gal and I'm your feller  
Dress up in your frock of yeller  
I'll look swell but you'll look sweller  
Setting the woods on fire  
We'll take in all the honkey tonks  
Tonight we're having fun  
We'll show the folks a brand new dance  
That never has been done  
I don't care who thinks we're silly  
You be Daffy and I'll be Dilly  
We'll order up two bowls of chili  
Setting the woods on fire  
I'll gas up my hot rod stocker  
We'll get hotter than a poker  
You'll be broke but I'll be broker  
Tonight we're setting the woods on fire  
We'll sit close to one another  
Up the one street and down the other  
We'll have a time O brother  
Setting the woods on fire_

"Setting the Woods on Fire", Hank Williams 


	9. Prison Break and Recognition

J and Harley stood just outside the gates of Arkham Asylum, hugging the wall and creeping around corners. Every thirty seconds, a search light would gently nudge them backwards, flooding the grass in front of them with a sparkle. On all four corners of the property, large, burly guards stood in hawk's nests with semi-automatic weapons. J smiled at Harley and raised his eyebrows comically - plenty of people had broken out of Arkham before, but to break in...that was another story entirely. Their newly acquired henchmen followed them, clown masks twitching around nervously, their hands clutching their weapons to their chests tightly.

They froze for a moment - the front gate and security booth was in view, another two guards with weapons operating the moving arm. Harley turned to J. "Mr. J, what exactly did you say the plan was again?"

He cleared his throat and licked his lips. "Uh, there isn't really a plan per-say," he glanced around at the hawk's nests, "I'm just going to do what I do best," he pulled out a hand grenade, "and you're going to do what you do best. That's what the lab coat is for."

She stared down at the coat in her grip, bearing the words _Dr. Harleen Quinzell, PhD_ in black stitching and splattered with blood that wasn't her own. She threw it over her shoulder, pushing her gloved hands through the arm holes. She smiled slyly and kissed him, both of them letting out a giggle. "Whatever you say, Mr. J," she said.

He caught her by the wrist, taking a small book from her coat pocket and handing it to her. She studied the cover and laughed. "A bible?"

He took it from her and tucked it into her breast pocket, smiling. "Trust me, you'll thank me later."

She shook her head. "You sure do have a twisted sense of humor, Mr. J!"

As soon as she got into the light, she began stumbling around like a rabid raccoon. The guard outside of the booth turned towards her, his gun pointed at her. "Identify yourself."

"Please, don't shoot!" She screamed in her best I'm-a-scared-little-girl voice. "It's Harleen Quinzell!"

He lowered his weapon and squinted. "Harleen? What in God's name are you doing here? You're supposed to be out of Gotham!" As she came closer, his eyes widened at the blood staining her coat and the fresh gashes in her face. "Jesus, what the hell happened to your face?"

"I saw the Joker," she said, panting and managing a few tears. "I...I managed to get away, but not before...before..." She broke down into sobs, shielding her puffy red eyes from him.

He turned to the guard in the booth. "We need medical attention, now! Quick, let's get going before - "

Before he could finish his sentence, Harleen had knocked him out, taken his weapon and shot the man in the booth. The men in the hawk's nests turned, opening fire in her general direction. She crawled to the booth quickly, taking cover next to the bleeding man, who was clutching his shoulder and whimpering. "You're...you're working for him, aren't you?" He said, staring her down. "You were lying, you did that to yourself!"

She smiled. "I'd like to thank the Academy for giving me this stunning opportunity," she laughed. He spit in her face, and she struck him with the gun. "Call them off," she said, pointing to the hawk's nests outside. "Tell them he misfired and that everything's fine."

He shook his head.

"Fine," she said, "if you're not going to play by the rules, you're going to have to be punished." She took her pointer finger and stuck it into his bullet wound, letting the hot sticky mess flow onto her hand.

He screamed in agony, writhing around on the booth floor, sending broken glass flying everywhere. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! I'LL CALL THEM OFF! JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING RADIO!"

She dug her finger in deeper. "No no, you didn't say, 'Mother may I have the radio?'"

He screamed again, sweat pouring over his brow. "OH MY GOD, PLEASE, PLEASE JUST STOP!"

She twisted her finger around. "SAY IT!"

"MOTHER MAY I HAVE THE RADIO?"

She yanked her finger out and grabbed the walkie-talkie and held it in front of his mouth.

"Adams, what's going on down there? We can't see a damn thing," said a muffled telephone voice.

The man called Adams did not take his eyes off of her as she pressed the button in. "There was a misfire, Forrester. Cole accidentally..." he stopped for a moment, but she held up her bloody finger menacingly. "Cole thought he saw something. He just got a little spooked. He went to go check it out. It's fine. Everything's...fine."

There was a pause before Forrester spoke again. "Alright. If you're sure. Who's down there with you?"

Harley peered through the broken window up at the Hawk's nest and waved. "Tell him it's me. Tell him exactly what I told Cole."

He sighed. "Dr. Harleen Quinzell's down here. She needs medical attention. She uh...she needs to go inside and use the phone."

Another pause. "Alright fine, send her in."

Harleen slowly stood up and let herself out of the booth, her hands raised where Forrester could see them. She looked towards the wall where J had been standing - he was now peeking around the corner. She nodded at him, and then up at the hawk's nest, mouthing the words _One man only._

The mechanical arm was lifted and she started running towards the building, her lab coat fanning out behind her. She heard J shout, "NOW," and a barrage of gun fire followed. The men in the hawk's nests fell one by one, totally unprepared for the storm that had come their way. A siren sounded, filling Harley's ears with its cat-like call. She reached the door and swiped Harleen's ID, motioning for J and the others to follow her inside. The large metal doors opened painfully slow, opening to the amplified siren inside. A night guard stood at the front desk, his handgun drawn and ready to fire. Three others stood on the mezzanine above the desk, their guns also at the ready. "Don't come any closer, I'll shoot! I've already activated the alarm, th-th-the police will be here!" Yelled the night guard.

J laughed, throwing his head back and flipping his knife open. "What is that they say about the police, Harley? When seconds count...?"

She smiled. "The police are minutes away."

Without hesitation, their henchman opened fire, killing the night guard and his three friends.

"So I'm sure you've all been wondering what it is exactly that we're doing here," said J, taking the ID from Harley. "I spent quite the time in Arkham, and I met some amazing people. Much like you folks. And I've been thinking what a crime it is to keep these amazing people locked up. Boring, really, to be the only crime business in town nowadays."

There was a murmur of laughter amongst the group, who gripped their guns anxiously.

J laughed hysterically. "Alright, go have fun," he said motioning to the hallways, "blow the shit out of this place. And let as many of these amazing folks out to play as you can."

The men started running, Harley following close behind them, but J caught her arm. "No, no, not you my pet. I've got a job for you."

She puffed her lip out. "But I wanna go have fun like all the other kids!" She pressed into him seductively. "Or are we gonna celebrate grown-up style?"

He let out a little laugh as he forced his mouth into hers again, intentionally pushing into her mutilated face. There was an explosion from the hallway, which only seemed to fuel his intensity. He shoved a hand into her bustier as he fumbled clumsily with his own zipper, pushing her into the front desk and smearing her already soaked lab coat with the night guard's blood. He bit her lip, drawing a bit of her own blood from it.

There was a scream from the hallway, followed by gunshots and a thud. J stopped quickly and looked up, his hands still in inappropriate places. He laughed, taking her arm roughly and leading her to the center of the room. "We've got company," he said, opening his knife and spinning her around to face the hallway. "Just like I knew we would." He held the knife against her throat.

She gasped a little. "Mr. J! What are you doing?"

"Shut up," he said, pressing the blade closer to her skin, "and you'll see what you have to do."

She did as she was told, keeping completely quiet and still. There was definitely something moving in the dark of the hallway, coming closer and closer, and it wasn't one of the inmates. No, this shape was too large, too commanding for a simple inmate at Arkham. It moved gracefully, not as if it were worried about meeting some specter that wasn't there, twitching and insane. It was strong, in control of itself, not worried about the men it left in its wake, still clinging to their weapons.

Slowly, the shape moved into the light, the sillouhette taking full form. Harley's eyes widened, an internal smile forming within her. Even Harleen, who she had dragged kicking and screaming into this place, was quiet for a moment.

There, in a dim pool of light, was the Dark Knight himself. Batman.

_Wow, _said Harleen in her mind, _I've lived here for years and I've never actually seen him up close. _

Batman moved a bit closer, as if his very life depended on it. "Let her go, Joker," he said in a gruff and raspy voice, "Dr. Quinzell doesn't deserve any of this."

"It's not about whether she deserves it or not," J said, swaying back and forth and licking his lips. "You see, I've got a city to run, and people have gotta see what happens when they try and fix me. I don't need fixing. I'm perfectly fine the way I am."

There was another explosion in the hallway. Harley cracked her knuckles, getting ready for the fight ahead. This was going to be a tough one, she could tell.

Batman's hands floated slowly to his belt. "Is all of this really worth giving up your freedom again? Don't you understand what you're doing?" He asked.

J laughed hysterically. "Are you trying to instill some sort of fear in me? Hmm? Trying a little intimidation?" He pulled Harley in tighter for dramatic effect. "I understand, sure, sure. What I don't understand is why you're so worried about Dr. Tits McGee when my henchman are running amok, literally cleaning this place from inside out, letting all the psychopaths you put away free." He laughed again. "Or do you have a little crush? Is that it, Batsy? Am I going to filet the woman of your dreams right before your very eyes?" He laughed again, then hooked his arm tightly around her neck. "Well, this is boring. I hate to ruin this little class reunion, but uh...I have a revolution to start." He kissed her cheek, then took the knife and plunged it into her heart, laughing as he did it. Before either of them could react, he turned on his heels and disappeared into the darkness.

Harley fell to her knees, her chest sore and hollow-feeling. There was a dull throbbing sensation as she sank to all fours, the beaded sweat from her forehead dripping on the ground.

Batman rushed over to her, kneeling by her side and placing a comforting hand on her back. "Harleen...oh God...you're...you're going to be alright. Just...just relax and - "

She held up a hand to silence him, then pressed it to her breast pocket and smiled. There was a hole alright, but the blade had not pierced the skin, had not stricken the defenseless flesh. She reached inside the pocket and pulled out the bible J had given her, a puncture now poked half way through it. She opened the front cover and laughed. Inside, scribbled in penmanship hardly suitable for a first grader, were a red group of "Ha Ha Ha" 's.

She dropped the bible on the ground and stood up, steadying herself on Batman's shoulder. "Harleen," he said with a slight smile she imagined he only used so he could look cool, "you're alright."

She laughed hysterically, an action that unnerved him a bit. "That's not my name," she said, running a finger down her gashes. "It's Harley now. Harley Quinn." She took off her jacket and let it fall to the floor. "And," she could barely contain her laughter, "and why are you talking like that? Seriously, do you have throat cancer or something? Jesus Christ."

He stared at her for a moment, utterly confused by her behavior, then pushed past her to go after J. "Wait!" She screamed, and he turned around quickly, only to be met with a punch to the face. He staggered backward, clutching his beak-y nose and staring at her with disbelief. There was a pause, and she kicked his legs out from under him, and he fell to the ground.

She laughed. "I'm sensing your confusion, and I respect that," she said as he quickly recovered and staggered to his feet. "But you see, Harleen Quinzell doesn't exist anymore. She's dead. Mr. J and I are working together now, and we're gonna make this town a whole lot more interesting." She cracked her neck and held her hands out in a "gimme" fashion. "So come on B-Man. Let's see what you can REALLY do."

He paused again, then turned to run after J once more. She rolled her eyes, then ran at him and kicked him over with both feet, rolling to the side and waiting as he recovered. When he did, she threw another punch at him, which he quickly blocked. She kicked at his and he ducked. She threw an elbow at him, but he blocked it once more. All of this, but he did not fight back.

She stopped and let out a groan. "Why won't you fight back?" She yelled, still throwing all she could at him. She threw another punch, and he grabbed her arm.

She threw one with her other arm, and he spun her around, tangling her up so she couldn't move. "I don't want to hurt you," he said in her ear.

She scoffed indignantly. "Well isn't that just too bad for you? Guess what? You came in here, you wanted to play, so it isn't my fault if you don't participate." She kicked her leg up and hit him in the face, then flipped him over her shoulder to the ground. Before he could stand up again, she leapt on top of him, pressing a knee into the pressure point in his chest, paralyzing him. She hit him a few times, just to make doubly sure he wasn't going to get up.

She leaned down so they were almost nose to nose, running a hand down his suit. "You know Batsy, we really could have had a lot of fun together. But you just didn't want to follow the rules, did you? Well now I'm going to do what every criminal in Gotham wants to do - get RID of you!" She opened her butterfly knife and flipped it in front of his eyes, making sure he could grasp the concept of death before it happened.

There was another explosion down the hallway, and she threw her head back and laughed. The sound of inmates and henchman alike were coming towards them, Gotham's most dangerous human beings running down the hall. "The cops!" She heard one yell, "The cops are coming!'

She threw her attention back to Batman, who was staring up at her with glassy eyes. "Well, B-Man, its been fun, but I've got to get going," she pressed a finger to her mouth in mock thought. "I guess I could throw you a bone before I filet the skin off of your ribs." She laughed again, then slowly lowered her lips to his.

But something happened. Something Harley wasn't expecting.

B-Man kissed back.

Harleen came back for a moment, her words firing wildly in Harley's brain. _Look at his eyes,_ she screamed, _don't do this, it's Bruce Wayne! I'd know that kiss anywhere!_

She pulled back up quickly, her eyes wide, staring down at him. "No," she said aloud, "no...this...shut up!" She grabbed the sides of her head as Harleen screamed at her over and over again, wanting nothing more than to spare his life. She rocked back and forth - she never thought Harleen was this strong, never thought she could take control like this, make her doubt herself. "Shut up Harleen! HE ISN'T WORTH IT!"

"Harley!" Said J suddenly, pulling her back into reality. "Rack 'em up, we've gotta go! Gotham's finest are here!" He motioned to her, staring only briefly at the image of her straddling the Bat.

She smiled slyly. "I'm just finishing up, Puddin'. Be right there!" She lowered her head so that her mouth was next to his ear. "Play dead," she whispered.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked, his chest heaving.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

She stood up quickly, and ran away, leaving him laying on the floor. "I'm leaving him for the cops," she said to J. "They'll be more than happy to see who's really behind the mask! Then there won't be a Bat to harass us at all!"

She gave him one last look, then hurried away.


	10. Trouble at Wayne Industries

Harley took the tweezers from the counter top and raised them to her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, a thin and hollow-looking woman staring back at her. It had been a week and a half since they had let the inmates at Arkham free, since she had joined forces with the Joker, and life had never been more insane. She stood there in a lacy black bra, tracing a finger over her exposed rib cage; she hadn't eaten, hadn't had the time to eat, until she was on the brink of starvation, and she couldn't have gotten more than two hours of sleep each night. The coke helped her stay awake and kept her appetite at bay of course, but how long could that possibly last?

_It's only so long before the cocaine rots your septum, _said an annoying voice in her head, _and how many nose bleeds have we had this week, hmm? Ten? More than ten?_

"Oh, shut the hell up, Harleen. You're not even there."

_By the way, an overdose will lead to a brain hemorrhage._

"Good, then you'll be the first to go," she said, clamping the tweezers around the first stitch in her left cheek. She pulled gently, letting it slide out of her skin slowly, then dropped it in the trash can next to the toilet. She started on the next stitch, then the next, revealing a line of serrated flesh in her wake. It looked better than she had imagined it, a scar that set her apart from everyone else, but linked her forever to the love of her life. In its own way, she thought, it was beautiful.

A shape appeared in the doorway, broad shouldered and commanding.

"Mr. J!" Harley squealed, dropping the tweezers on the counter with excitement. She admired her lover, his purple suspenders draped over his olive green shirt, his stringy hair slicked back gently. Her smile dropped a bit as she realized he looked less than pleased. "Is something wrong?" She asked shyly.

He licked his lips. "Nothing, no, not at all." He strolled towards her menacingly, and she tried to back away, but the counter prevented her from doing so. She had learned already to be wary of him when he looked like that, to make sure he didn't get a hold of her, because if he did...she shuddered a bit, running a finger over the spade-shaped gashes on her thigh. He was almost nose to nose with her now, his hazel eyes boring into hers. "Just that another of my plans has been thwarted by a crazy man in a bat suit, and that all of Gotham is laughing at me, and that that is one joke I have never found to be funny." He reached into his pocket and produced a knife, holding it down at his side.

She swallowed. "Now, Mr. J, you're not going to...to take that out on me - "

He spun her around and held the knife to her throat, staring at her through the mirror. She closed her eyes for a moment, praying for this to be over, knowing all too well what he was capable of. "I know you two had a moment," he said into her ear, smiling to cover up his extreme discontent, "and I'm tired of you hiding it from me. Who is he?"

She swallowed again, blinking quickly. "Come on now, Puddin', you know I don't know! Like you said, he's just some crazy man in a bat suit! Maybe he's a drifter!" The words were convincing, even to her.

_Why are you protecting him? _Asked Harleen. _I thought you wanted him dead. Or is something happening between you and me? Is the infallible Harley Quinn feeling MY feelings? Feeling a little compassion?_

Harley did not acknowledge her, but felt a tingle run down her spine. A few days ago, she would have ripped Bruce Wayne's still-beating heart from his chest, and still thought she might. Why was Harleen suddenly so strong again?

J stared at her for a good long time, gripping her cheeks between his thumb and pointer finger. He snarled and licked his lips, still pressing the knife to her throat.

She took a deep breath. It was a risk, and she knew it, but she raised her hand to his and gently wrapped her fingers around it, lowering it to his side. "Mr. J," she said softly, seductively, "you know I would never lie to you. Now why don't we just...put this all behind us and go find that big ugly bat ourselves?" She thought she saw him smile a little, licking his lips at the thought. "What do you say? Maybe we could ask a few questions, maybe satisfy our blood lust on the innocent, get him to come running?"

His slight and reluctant smile grew wider, and he ran a hand down her torso, still clutching the knife.

She smiled a bit at that. "By the way, I AM already down to just a bra." She winked at him, and he laughed, shoving his mouth into hers violently and directing her into the bedroom.

J tossed the grenade through the front window of Wayne Industries, the brick it was tied to smashing the glass into bits. He and Harley ran for cover, laughing wildly, waiting for the explosion to fill the night sky. Seconds later, there was a burst of fire and smoke, pluming from the ritzy marble lobby in scores. They stepped through the hole that had once been a window, broken glass crunching under their feet.

She hadn't let on why she picked this building, the hub of the B-Man himself, to break into and wreak havoc. She had almost fooled herself as she nonchalantly pointed to it, its shiny black facade twisting up into the night sky. But she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would come if they broke into this building, _his _building. Harleen cringed in her mind when she saw it, unnerved and protesting loudly. Harley smiled at that - she was going to show her once and for all that the two of them were different, even if they shared the same mind. Tonight, she was going to kill Bruce Wayne.

J laughed hysterically as he pulled a gun and sprayed the pristine marble with bullets, sending chips flying everywhere. He turned to her, and nodded toward the elevators. "There has to be a few kiddies burning the midnight oil upstairs. Let's pay them a little visit." She laughed like a child as she skipped towards them, turning a cartwheel for kicks. She couldn't wait to inflict pain and suffering on these imbeciles - perhaps one or two of them even had a wife and kids - the more that suffered, the better.

They stepped into the golden elevator, another marble floored monstrosity. A speaker in the ceiling played music, cheesy and terrible, loudly and proudly. Harley leapt up and put her fist through it, pulling the wires from it and letting it spark. They laughed heartily and kissed.

The doors opened to what appeared to be an empty floor. A large wooden desk was pushed to the left wall, and behind that was a gigantic office with an incredible bay window that overlooked all of Gotham.

"This, I presume, must be Mr. Wayne's office," said Harley, stepping from the elevator towards the desk. J held a hand up to stop her, then pointed to a mirror at the corner of the ceiling and smiled - from under the desk, a woman's high heel shoe was poking out, reflected in the mirror. The shoe's owner quickly realized her mistake and pulled in, moving the rolling chair slightly as she did so.

Harley stopped at the desk and looked over at the candy dish that sat upon it. "Jolly Ranchers," she said calmly, "fuck yeah. I'm taking all of these." She took one from the top, unrolled it and placed it in her mouth. She paused, waiting for movement from the woman, but it never came. In anger, she took the glass candy dish and threw it against the wall, sending glass and Jolly Ranchers flying everywhere. The woman jumped and let out a little whimper, but she did not move. Harley's eyes narrowed - this bitch wanted to play, and this was a game that Harley never lost. She took stack of papers from the desk and spread them everywhere, covering every inch of the desk in white. She turned to J and nonchalantly said, "Do you have any matches? I think I wanna light this desk on fire."

He nodded and laughed, throwing her a matchbook. She caught it and opened it quickly, picking out a match and striking it. The quick smell of sulfur filled her nostrils, and she extended her arm over the desk.

Before she could drop the tiny flame, the woman pushed the rolling chair away and leapt up, her hands up in a defenseless position. "Wait!" She screamed, tears already flowing down her face. "Please...please don't hurt me!"

Harley raised an eyebrow at her and laughed, leaping over the desk nimbly and pushing the receptionist to the wall, her hand wrapped firmly around her neck. "What were you even doing here? You're a receptionist. What could you possibly have been doing? Busy kissing ass? Climbing the corporate ladder?"

J laughed, closing the gap between them and pressing his gun to her forehead, which only made her sob harder. "Usually, when climbing the corporate ladder, the fairer sex usually accomplishes their goal on their knees, if you know what I mean." Harley looked over at him and they both cracked up, laughing for an astonishingly long amount of time.

"Please," whispered the receptionist, "I'll give you anything you want. You can have anything you want. Take my whole purse, it's in the first drawer!" A bit of snot ran from her nose, mixing with her tears. When they laughed at her, she added, "There are business plans in there...architecture, concept cars...all kinds of things, that are worth millions of dollars! Take them, please, just don't hurt me!"

"You see, doll," said J, his grin widening, "we're not really here for your money, or to negotiate. We're just here to shake things up a bit. Because we like to. And we can." He pulled back the hammer on his weapon. "And right now, shaking things up means killing you. No offense or anything."

Harley shrugged. "Really, no hard feelings. It's just the way things go."

The receptionist let out another sob, closing her eyes and waiting for her fate.

But the bullet never came, as J was knocked to the ground before he could do so. Batman was wrestling the gun from his hands, punching him in the mouth as he did so. Harley released her grip on the receptionist, muttering, "You better get out of here before things get really ugly for you," and turning towards the two men on the floor. She leapt upon Batman and wrapped an arm around his neck in a half-nelson, pulling him from J with all of her might. He squirmed, and she wrapped her legs around him to keep him still, trying in vain to suffocate him. J coughed and writhed on the floor, shaking his head to clear his mind for a moment, then leaping up with a laugh. He landed a kick to the Bat's abdomen, then another, forcing an "oomph" sound from him.

Before J could land another, Batman punched Harley in the leg, once, twice, three times, and she cried out in pain, her grip loosening just enough for him to wriggle free. He stood up, striking out at J with his spiked gloves, catching him across his already scarred face. J laughed, clutching his face, doubled over. "You've got me in stitches," he said with a laugh, "get it? Stitches?"

Batman did not laugh, but Harley did, exclaiming, "I got it!" The Bat turned to face her for a moment, and she kicked him across the face, sending him stumbling backwards. He threw a punch at her, barely grazing her jaw, but making her bleed nonetheless. There was a pause, and she licked the blood at the corner of her mouth. "Ouch! You rotten woman beater!" She said, attacking him with everything she had. J attacked as well, fighting rather clumsily compared to his counterparts.

A melee of epic proportions ensued, glass and blood flying everywhere, J stopping only to find something to beat Batman with. Harley was growing tired, her bones and muscles aching with fatigue. She could feel another nose bleed coming on, and it had nothing to do with the fight. There was no way she could continue like this, and it would only be a matter of minutes before Batman got the drop on her.

J turned the desk over and bludgeoned it with the butt of the gun, ripping off one of the wooden legs with fervor. Just as Batman was pinning Harley down, he struck the former over the head with the leg twice, and he fell to the side, panting and sweating.

Harley scrambled to her feet, sweat running down the sides of her face. "Give me the gun," she said, panting and holding her hand out. J hesitated, and she yelled, "GIVE ME THE FUCKING GUN!" Slowly, reluctantly, he picked it up and handed it to her, and she pointed it at the man on the floor. She pulled back the hammer. "I'm going to kill you now," she said, trying to convince herself to pull the trigger.

Another long pause. "If you're going to do it, you better do it soon," said J, his eyebrows raised, a knowing smile on his face. "He's tricky. He'll get right up and fly out of here if you don't watch him. Like a bat."

Her hand shook a bit as Harleen urged her not to pull the trigger. "Shut up," she said aloud, "I'm going to do this. I'm going to get rid of him."

"Really? Are you really going to do it this time?" J stared down at his watch. "Because I taped my soaps and I really want to get home and watch them."

The sound of men screaming and dogs barking from the sidewalk outside broke the silence. Sirens blared as police cruisers screeched to a halt in front of the office building. "Shit!" Exclaimed Harleen, "Next time. I swear you won't be so lucky."

J turned to run, Harley following close behind him, the elevator opening just in time. Just as she was stepping through, she felt a cold coil wrap around her ankles, knocking her to the ground. She wrenched her neck around to see her assailant - Batman had fired at her with his stupid gun, the bastard. She turned to J. "Help!" She yelled, her arm outstretched towards him.

J smiled, waving slightly. "Sorry babes," he said as the doors closed, "I can't have a girl that chokes every time we're down to the wire. Look me up when you think you're ready."

Harleen stared at the closed doors in disbelief, then hit it with her fist. She fumbled with the wire around her feet, trying desperately to break herself free, but it was no use. She glared at Bruce, turning her body to face him and infantry crawling over to him on her elbows, dragging her feet behind her. "You son of a bitch!" She yelled, sustaining a horrible case of rug burn. "What the hell did you do that for? I didn't even shoot you like I was supposed to!"

She reached him and starting punching his arm pathetically, unable to get her arm to fully extend while on the floor. He grabbed her arm and pinned it down, rolling over to face her slowly. "I'm trying to help you. You've saved me twice, and now I'm returning the favor." He no longer spoke in his gravelly Batman voice, but as Bruce Wayne, and she was still, interested in his speech. "Do you understand exactly what it is you're doing? I mean really?" His blue eyes bore into hers. "Maybe you do grasp the possible consequences of your actions, and maybe you like doing...whatever it is that you do. Fine." He leaned in closer. "But I don't think you really know who you're messing with. The Joker is a dangerous man. He can do things you never thought were humanly possible, and you think he's not going to hurt you? Jesus Christ Harleen, look at your face. He doesn't even have to touch you - you'll jump off a cliff for that sociopath. He has total control over you, whether you want to admit it or not."

She scoffed, ripping her arm out of his grip. "First of all Bruce, I didn't save you, I just couldn't kill you. For whatever goddamned reason, you are keeping me tied to my humanity, and I fucking hate it, but the more time I spend with J, the more I realize I want to kill you. Second of all, I know what he's capable of, and call me crazy, it's been done before, but I don't really care. He would never hurt me. I know that's hard for you to understand, but it's hard for any rational human being to understand. I told you before, I am not a rational human being, so you need to stop trying to deconstruct the insanity that is Dr. Harleen Quinzell."

He smiled a bit. "You're referring to yourself as Harleen again?"

"No I - " she stopped, her eyes narrowing at him. "I'm not even going to dignify that question with a response. You have serious deep-seeded issues, and you need help, and that's a lot coming from me. I'm leaving now."

She turned around and started to drag herself towards the stairwell, which was now filled with the hurried footsteps of cops.

"Wait, Harleen," said Bruce, laying a hand on her ankles. She turned her head towards him, and he sighed, taking a blade from his utility belt. "You're not going to be able to make it out like this." He cut her free, and she stood up slowly, eyeing him suspiciously. He stood up as well, getting a look at her, eye-to-eye.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't didn't you tell the Joker or anyone else who I was?"

She backed away, stepping on the elevator, her eyes still narrowed. "I don't know," she said as the doors closed.


	11. Bud and Lou

Harley stumbled out of Wayne Tower, keeping in the shadows and away from the police. She hugged the wall, glancing around nervously, waiting to be caught, waiting for someone to see her.

_Well, now where are we gonna go? What in the hell are we going to do?_

Harley shuddered. For the first time, she doubted herself. She couldn't believe she had spared the Batman once again, couldn't believe that he had gotten to her. And the Joker - oh, the Joker - had left her to be arrested, more or less taken to prison, or worse, Arkham, for the rest of her life. As much as she hated to admit it, Harleen was right - she had no one, no friends, no family, no lover. She was without a doubt on her own.

She broke into a sprint down the alleyway, limping as she did so. Batman's trap had taken her down, her ankle twisting as it coiled around her legs. Even in the restrictive form of her boot, she could see that it had begun to swell, wobbling inwards with her every step. She heard the bark of a police dog and wrenched her head around. She couldn't afford to stop running, not while she was still within...

"Oomph!"

A grunt escaped her lips as she ran headlong into a metal trashcan, toppling it over with a loud CLANG. She got up on all fours, shaking her head to clear her vision.

_ Nice going, idiot. It appears that even the most menial of tasks have started to escape you._

Harley's eyes narrowed. "Harleen, I swear, if you say one more goddamned thing, I'll -"

Another bark, this time much closer than the last. She spun around to see two massive German Shepherds standing at the end of the alley, their leash in the hands of none other than Jim Gordon. Her eyes widened and she scrambled to her feet, making a mad dash to the other end of the alley and turning desperately down a side street. Behind her, she heard the unmistakable drop of a chain leash and the clatter of dog paws hitting the asphalt.

There was no way to outrun these dogs, even on two good ankles. She sped down the side street, looking desperately for a way out. Mid way down the alley, she spotted a fire escape crawling up the side of a dilapidated apartment building, a dumpster directly underneath. If she could just get to that dumpster, she could pull down the ladder and climb up the escape to safety. She pushed herself harder than she ever had before, her legs pumping up and down, a deep burn forming in the muscles. Behind her, the dogs barked, snarled, and snapped at her heels.

She reached the dumpster and scrambled on top of it clumsily, her boots kicking noisily at the sides. She took a flying leap at the ladder of the fire escape, her fingers reaching out, scraping only air as she came back down with a thud. The dogs circled the dumpster, barking over and over again, teeth bared menacingly. She jumped up again, her fingers barely grazing the metal ladder.

The larger of the two dogs perched its front paws on the dumpster, scrambling with its hind legs to reach her. Shaking, she reached down and grabbed the gun attached to her side, loading it with steady but slow hands. She pulled the hammer back and pointed it at the dog, her chest heaving up and down. In all her years on earth as Harleen or Harley, she had never hurt an animal, and was more than reluctant to do it now. She laid her finger gently on the trigger, panting as she did so.

The dog pulled back a bit when it saw the gun, a look of familiarity flooding its canine face. It had seen one of these before, that was for sure. Harley smiled timidly, sweat beading on her forehead. "It's alright," she said in a comforting tone, "I don't want to hurt you." The dog snarled, but ceased its alarm-like bark. Slowly, Harley set the gun down and put her hands in the air, reaching towards the other side of the dumpster and opening it slowly. The dog nipped at her hand, but did not sink its teeth into the supple flesh. She ripped a garbage bag open and rooted around in it for a moment, looking for something a dog might eat. Got it - a half eaten bag of beef jerkey sat idly inside, its contents less than two days old.

Slowly, she reached inside the bag and pulled out a large piece of the dried meat, waving it around the the dog's face. Its partner rested its paws on the dumpster beside him, following the meat with hungry eyes. In the distance, she heard police sirens, the suspicious yells of police men not far behind her. She would have to be quick.

She inched her hand closer to the first dog's face, and he took the meat from her hand, chomping loudly, licking his lips when he was done. She took a second piece and gave it to the second dog, allowing it to do the same. She glanced down at the feasting canines, listening intently to the nearing police men. She took two more pieces and threw them on the ground, leaping down from the dumpster and taking off again, the bag in her hand.

She had only been running for a few seconds before she heard the clip of dog paws behind her once again, but this time, the dogs weren't barking. The large one came to her side and glanced up at her hopefully, the second following suit. She took two more pieces and handed them down to them, a smile spread across her lips.

_It's been a long time since a dog has followed me home. _

Harley laughed and scratched the dog's ears, her pace not slowing a bit.

"_Bud! Lou! Let's go, we haven't got all day! Christ, what's taking them so long_?" Jim Gordon's voice rang out over the alley, and for a moment, the dogs stopped and looked back. Harley stopped and faced them. "Come on, babies! I'm a wanted woman. If you're coming, you better keep going!"

Slowly and somewhat reluctantly, they followed her down the alley, loping at her side, their noses pressed against the jerky bag.


	12. A Day at the Bank

Harley tipped her black bowler in front of her black aviators, her eyes cast down at the wet sidewalk. The collar of her trench coat was popped, covering the scars she so usually so proudly wore - she was incognito today, slinking around Gotham like a cat who had killed the canary. Since the incident at Wayne Tower, the entire city had been on the lookout for the crazy, scarred-up clown girl who had caused over $1,000,000 in damage, killed an insurmountable number of people, and stolen, among other things, two police dogs.

Those police dogs, Bud and Lou, loped on a leash that hung by her side, their tongues lolling out of their mouths, eyes shifting cautiously. It was if they had sensed Harley's unwillingness to go out, and had been on edge for the month that they'd been together.

The trio stopped at a crosswalk, eyes straight forward, trying desperately not to attract attention. A balding, middle-aged man stopped next to her, peered down at the dignified looking canines at her side. He smiled. "What lovely dogs you have!" He exclaimed, extending a hand towards Lou. "Really, they really must be pure bred or - "

Lou emitted a low growl, his lip curling into a snarl. The man was silenced immediately, jerking his hand back quickly. Harley did not look at him, but patted Lou's tremendous head. "They don't like to be touched," she said plainly.

The crosswalk light changed to WALK, and Harley obeyed. A Rolls Royce screeched to a halt beside her, narrowly missing her by inches. Its owner layed on the horn, then rolled down the window. "Watch it lady!" He screamed. "Your stupid mutt almost got you killed! Maybe next time you should ask for a better guide dog!"

Her leather gloves tightened around the leash. If the streets were any less crowded, if she had the advantage of night fall, this prick would have been dead. But a police chase wasn't worth it, wasn't worth being caught. She said nothing, and continued across the street.

When she reached the other side, she made her way to a large, white stone building - Gotham's First National Bank. She sneered a bit when she pushed the large glass door open, almost embarrassed at what she was about to do. This was a mundane task, making a withdrawl, and Harley Quinn did not perform mundane tasks. If she'd had the manpower, the guts, she'd have pulled a machine gun and robbed the place. If she'd had Mr. J on her side...

She shook her head to rid it of the thought. It had been a long month without him, longer even than she cared to admit to herself. She'd had nowhere to live, and had taken on slaughtering motel occupants in order to stay in their rooms. Luckily Harleen had plenty of cash in her bank account yet, or she'd have had to rip off mob dealers, hold up grocery stores for the cash, not just for fun. She missed him, emotionally, physically, but she couldn't go back to him after what he'd done. He'd left her for dead, and no one did that to the Clown Princess of Crime. Not even the Joker.

Sometimes, this life was just too much for her to bear. She'd thought about turning herself in, about going to Bruce for help, about a lot of things. But in the end, the troublemaker inside won out.

She stood in the endless line, expelling irritated sighs. She looked at Bud and Lou through the bottom of her shades - they sat rigid, the very picture of discipline. She'd gotten away with taking them plenty of places; she'd pretended to be blind, and had gotten very good at doing so. The businessman in front of her sniffled, stifled a sneeze behind a cupped hand. He spun around angrily. "Is there a reason why you need two seeing eye dogs? Some people are allergic you know."

Harley's eyes narrowed, but her expression hardly changed. "One dog is for sight. The other is for running down assholes that harass me." She leaned in his direction, careful not to look him in the eye. "Bud killed a man once. Just bit right into his jugular vein. There was blood everywhere, you wouldn't believe."

The man nodded slowly, then turned back around. Harley smiled to herself.

When the last few people had made their transactions, Harley spoke into her sleeve.

"Harleen," she asked quietly, "what's your account number again?"

_My God Harley, for being a criminal mastermind you sure are stupid sometimes._

"I didn't ask for your opinion, you stupid whore. I asked for your information."

A pause, a sigh from Harleen.

_Look, why don't you just let me do the talking? I know the number, and you won't have to risk scaring the teller again. I don't want the cops called for a second time._

The line was dwindling. Harley hated to let Harleen take control, especially since she'd been doing it so often lately - being on the run meant attracting little attention to yourself, something Harleen was good at.

Harley bit her lip. "Ok, fine," she said finally, "just don't expect anything after we're done here."

_As usual._

Harleen snapped into reality, the sudden jolt making her feel a bit nauseous. She could feel her hands, her feet, her body again, and smiled. It was always a joy to be able to take control of herself once again, no matter how short of an excursion it was. She rolled her neck, letting it crack, and stretched her arms towards the ceiling. This certainly was the life.

Bud and Lou tugged on her leash and lead her towards the counter. "Good afternoon," said the teller cheerfully, a large red headed woman in thick, black rimmed glasses. "How can I help you today?"

Harleen stared slightly to her left, playing up the fact that she was "blind." She placed an elbow on the counter and rested her cheek in her hand, strategically covering her scar. "Hi," she said, a warm smile spread across her face. "I need to make a withdrawl."

The teller reached under the counter and removed a slip of paper. "Alright," she said, "I'll just need you to fill this out..." She looked at Harleen remorsefully, at the dogs, at her dark glasses. "Nevermind, I can fill it out. I just need to know your information."

"Certainly," she said. "I need to make a withdrawl of five-hundred - "

BOOM.

The entire bank shook as debris and marble flew into the air. Harleen was knocked to the ground, and Bud and Lou shifted nervously, barking as if their lives depended on it. A great deal of smoke filled her vision, making it next to impossible to see much of anything. Other bank patrons lay scattered about on the floor, some trying to scramble to their feet, others unable to. When everything had settled, four or five men came walking out of the smoke. They screamed and barked orders at the patrons, pointing guns in their faces and making threats. They were nervous, rigid, looking as if this wasn't their idea.

Because it wasn't.

It was his.

Mr. J followed behind them, his gait slow and calm, a serrated knife held down by his side.

Harleen panicked at the sight of him, her breathing becoming shallow and short. Immediately, Harley tried to take control again.

_I can deal with him a lot better than you can, and you know it! _

"No Harley, you're not in your right mind. We're going to pretend we're just another blind girl, like we've never met in our lives."

_First of all, when have I ever been in my right mind? Second of all, do you really think he isn't going to find us? Let's face it, you've got a few discernable characteristics etched into your face._

Harleen took a deep breath. "Ok," she said finally, eyeing the Joker as he made his way around the room, collecting cell phones and smashing them gleefully, "obviously we need to work together, whether we like it or not. We need to make a plan. We need to escape."

There was a pause as Harley sighed. _You're right,_ she said finally. _Get the money first, though. We need that._

Harleen nodded, then, with her eye on the distracted henchmen and ringleader, she nimbly leapt over the counter. Bud and Lou watched as she went, careful not to attract attention to her, laying down apathetically under the counter's edge.

The teller was huddled under the counter, a mess of tears rolling down her cheeks. Harleen grabbed her cardigan and drew her close. "Look, this is going to sound weird at a time like this, but I really need to make that transaction."

The teller did not respond, her eyes widening in disbelief, her sobs coming in loud waves. _Slap her, _said Harley.

Harleen slapped her lightly, and she gasped for air, finally calming down enough to look her in the eyes. "Did you hear what I just said? I need that money, and fast."

The teller wiped her nose. "Ok, ok. There's no reason to fill out the form now, just...just go in the drawer and get it." She pointed at a small pull out drawer behind Harleen's head.

Harleen reached up and opened the drawer, grabbing a handful of cash and stuffing it into her jacket. She turned back to the teller. "What's your name?"

The teller sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye. "Angie," she said pathetically.

Harleen took off her glasses and grabbed Angie's arms. "Angie," she said, "you are going to make it out of this, ok? There is no reason for you to be crying. Trust me, I know."

She turned to leave, but the woman caught her wrist. "You're her, aren't you?" She asked. "You're Harley Quinn."

A panic light went off in Harleen's head, shared by Harley, but it was fleeting. _Don't kill her, _said Harley. _She didn't do anything wrong._

A warm wave swept over Harleen as Harley's words sank in. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, her vision becoming hazy all at once. "No," she said, "I'm a bastardization of a woman named Harleen Quinzell." It was the first time she couldn't tell her she ended and Harley began, as if she were normal again, as if she were one person, for the first time in years. Her hands dropped from Angie's sides, and she took a quick look over the counter.

"Don't worry," said Angie, "I won't tell anyone."

Harleen smiled tightly, then leapt over the counter again.

"Alright," she said, "now what do we do?"

Harley sighed. _I don't really know. I think if there was some kind of distraction, we could infantry crawl to the side door. _She turned her head to the right, eyeing the glass door at the end of a long marble hallway. _But that would be quite a long way to crawl._

"We couldn't crawl, we'd have to run, and we'd only have a few seconds. That would be enough time for the dogs to make it, but us on the other hand..."

_I see what you mean. How would we even make a distraction anyway?_

_" _"I don't know, I thought maybe you had a plan."

_ That was my plan._

_ "_A large henchman's ears perked up at Harleen's conversation. He turned to her, gun raised, and started towards her menacingly. "You shut the hell up, you hear me?_"_

She stared up at him, her eyes wide, taken aback by this sudden unwanted attention. "I'm sorry, I just - "

"You're goddamn right you're sorry! You'd surely be sorry if I put a bullet right between your eyes!"

She swallowed, and her eyes darted towards Mr. J, who was slowly turning to face the confrontation.

"Look," she said quietly to the henchman, "I don't want any trouble, and you don't either."

_So step the fuck back._

"So please, step the fuck back." The words fell out of her mouth, and Harley let out a little cackle. A few patrons gasped a little, and she went rigid for a moment, then relaxed. "Thank you, Harley."

The henchman cocked his gun and advanced on her. "You'll pay for that, you little bitch!" He pressed the barrel to her forehead, and she grabbed it, pinning it to the ground as the bottom of her shoe met his face. The gun flew out of his hands as they flew to his broken nose, which was now gushing blood. He stumbled backwards, a look of disbelief spread across his face.

Harleen laughed. "You look ridiculous!" She said. She peered down at Bud and Lou, whose noses were turned up towards the henchman, aching for some practice. She smiled. "Go get him," she said. They leapt at him, knocking him to the ground, their teeth buried in his tender spots. Another henchman closed in nervously, his weapon pointed at the ravenous canines. Harleen raised her gun at him. "Don't even think about it, or I'll put one right in your dick." The man backed away, lowering his weapon and silently witnessing his comrade, who screamed out in pain as blood and gore engulfed him, until he was little more than a twitching bloody mess on the floor.

A single pair of hands applauded, and a voice laughed manically. Harleen turned slightly to see Mr. J's polished loafers clicking across the marble floor, a skip in his step. "Harley, Harley, Harley Quinn! If it isn't the schizophrenic clown girl that everyone's been looking for! It's been a while, hasn't it, my pet?"

She raised the gun at him. "Don't come any closer."

He laughed. "I'm sorry, did I do something wrong?"

"You know damn well what you did wrong," she said. Bud and Lou came to her side, snarling and gnashing their teeth at him.

"Oh, come now. Surely you aren't still mad at me for that!"

She cocked her gun. "What do you think?"

He inched forward, his hands outstretched towards her. "Oh, darling, think of all the good times we've shared, all the good times we've yet to share! I was going to suggest we get a dog, that's the reasonable thing for couples to do when they live together, correct? I see you've already got a couple, and aren't they dashing!" He reached down to touch Lou, who snapped at him and let out a low bark. He yanked his hand back and laughed, jumping up comically. After a while, he cleared his throat and licked his lips. "Look, babes. The point is...uh, well, I'm a pretty sick guy. And you're a pretty, sick gal. We belong together. And I love ya, baby. I do." He inched so close that the barrel of her gun was touching his chest. "So if you think otherwise, I suggest you pull that trigger."

Harleen swallowed and closed her finger over the trigger. There was no comment from Harley, and no sound in the bank but the silent weeping of a few women. Bud and Lou snapped and snarled, waiting for the word, but it never came.

She lowered her weapon and stared down at the floor. "You're right," she said, holding back hot tears. "I am everything you say I am. And we really do belong together."

He laughed and forced his mouth into hers, and a tear fell down her cheek - not of joy or love, but of hatred for herself and everything that she was.


	13. Assertion and Master Plan

Harleen and Harley sat staring at each other over the grimy metal table, a window covered in dilapidated blinds overlooking Gotham's Industrial Parkway behind them. A florescent bulb flickered above them, its buzzing hum the only sound filling the silence, save the echo of a Hank Williams record playing somewhere in the warehouse. Harleen bit her thumb nail nervously, while Harley cut a line of cocaine with her credit card, filing it into neat little piles on the table.

Harleen looked up. "You know, you really shouldn't do that."

Harley bent down and took a sniff, then wiped her nose with the back of her gloved hand. "I know. You don't have to tell me every five seconds." She stared at the smear of powder that stained her glove, and lapped at it with her tongue.

Harleen sighed and stared out the window. "What are we going to do, Harley? Things are worse than ever."

Harley stared down at the table. "I know," she said, cutting another line. "But not because of outside circumstances." Their eyes met as she tapped a finger to her temple. "You're going nuts," she bent down to the table, then stopped. "Well, I mean, you were always nuts, but you've never had second thoughts before. Not like this anyway. One thing's for sure," she said, pushing the coke into an even more perfect form, "J did us wrong. And nobody, not nobody, does us wrong. You of all people should know that."

Harleen regarded her, then scoffed a bit. "So what exactly are you saying? That we should go back to making withdrawls at the bank and killing drug dealers and prostitutes for motel rooms?"

Harley thought for a moment. "I didn't say that. But perhaps he needs to be taught a lesson?" She shrugged and sniffed the second line, then immediately went back to cutting a third. Harleen scowled and grabbed Harley's wrist tightly. "Will you stop that? You're not making the situation any better!"

Harley looked at her and laughed. "Please. Like sitting on your ass and biting your nails is helping any more?" She bent down, and Harleen grabbed the back of her head and slammed it down into the table. Harley groaned, then slowly sat up, a trickle of blood coming from her nose. She began to laugh horribly, a raspy, guttural noise, one that spat blood with every heave.

"What the hell is so goddamn funny?" Asked Harleen.

Harley pointed at her face, and a splitting headache struck Harleen immediately. She blinked and pressed a hand to the skin beneath her nose, pulling away fingers that were sticky with blood and cocaine. She shuddered, and her eyes widened with realization: she had just slammed her own head into the table. Harley continued to laugh and point, the horrid noise ringing in Harleen's ears. She pressed her sleeve to her face, sopping up the blood that poured from her nose, humiliated at her own stupidity.

A large shape appeared in the doorway, and her eyes shifted towards it, an arm still held firmly beneath her nostrils. It was Mr. J, clad in a bloody wife beater, his face sweaty, his eyes wild. Her eyes shifted again across the table, and Harley was gone, tucked away safely in her mind once again.

J gave her an up-down stare, one eyebrow cocked slyly with intrigue at her bloody nose. "More problems with the powder, dearest?" He asked, a smile spread across his lips.

"Um..." she stammered, taking her arm down and examining it, "yeah. Yeah I guess you could say that." She looked up at him and wiped the blood from her hands as best she could, resolving finally to wipe them on her garter belt. "Did you want something?"

He smirked. "Stand up."

Her eyes narrowed a bit. "Why?"

"I wanna get a good look at you."

She slowly stood up, not taking her eyes from him as she did so. Under his gaze, she felt naked, her bustier doing little to cover up her skin. She let the oversized jacket she wore fall to the floor, the fabric of it no longer concealing her heaving chest. He took her in for a moment, sizing her up and smiling horribly. In a flash, he was on top of her, kissing and biting her neck roughly, pawing at her breasts and between her thighs. He lapped at the blood that stained her chin, running his fingers over the scars he had inflicted on her side with a carving knife.

_What in the hell do you think you're doing? Get him off of us!_

In one swift motion, she shoved him off, her leg extended towards his torso. He stumbled backwards, a puzzled look on his face, which then turned to wild excitement. "Playing hard to get, are we?"

She swallowed, panting from the sudden exertion. "No. I'm playing impossible to get." Her eyes narrowed as she whistled for Bud and Lou, who immediately loped into the room and sat by her side.

J ran his tongue over his lips, eyeing the mutts at her feet. He smoothed his shirt down and cleared his throat, wiping the moisture that collected at the corners of his mouth. "Do you think you can just, uh, refuse me, Harley? Hmm? Do you think this is a game?" He closed the gap between them, and the canines shifted nervously. "I'm a powerful man. I'm a crazy son of a bitch, you know that." From out of nowhere, he pulled a switch blade, holding it dangerously close to her eye. "And I can do things to you...that will make you wish you were dead."

There was a pause. "Bud! Lou!" She screamed.

They didn't miss a beat. Lou leapt at his back, taking him down, while Bud grabbed viciously at his leg. The switchblade flew from his hand, landing miles out of his reach. There were cries and wild laughter from J, and ferocious growling from the dogs.

After what seemed like hours, she called them off, cackling madly at the sight of the heap on the floor. They reluctantly followed orders, slinking into the next room and looking back periodically to check on their master. She composed herself and strutted towards him, straddling him on the floor. "You really thought you could intimidate me, didn't you?" She bent down so she was inches from his face. "Intimidation is for the weak, for those who have something to lose." She kissed him. "You should know better than to fuck with someone who has nothing to lose. And one more thing," she said, taking his face in her hand, "that shit you pulled at Wayne Towers? If you ever, EVER do that to me again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

He spat blood in her face and nodded, then took his hand and ran it up her thigh. "You know how hard all this excitement makes me." He smiled and laughed wildly.

She smiled back and licked his face. "We are too twisted for color TV."

An hour later and he was doing up his trousers while she laid naked, tangled in the dirty, slightly bloody sheets on the bed. She laid her chin on her folded arms, watching him closely, waiting for the after-sex commentary that never came. She sighed and stared up at the ceiling, then cleared her throat. "So, Mr. J, what's our next move?"

He cackled gleefully and paced around the room, wringing his hands quickly and shaking out his already mussed up hair. "I can't tell you, it's a surprise. One that I surely do not want to ruin."

She laughed. "Come on, Puddin'! You can tell me." She stared at him seductively and ran a finger over the sheets.

He thought for a moment and licked his lips, then shrugged. "Alright, but you have to promise not to tell." He sat down beside her and pressed his finger to her lips, and she shook her head. He smiled. "You know how I love to, uh, shake things up a bit, just generally wreak havoc throughout this miserable hellhole we call a city?"

"Mmmhmm," she said lazily.

"Well, I've been thinking Harley, like I always do, and nothing would make me happier than to see this place go up in smoke while the..." he paused and stared into a corner, trying to figure out how to word his sentence, "...the little sheep of Gotham run around screaming for help. It haunts my very dreams and keeps me up at night." He looked down at her again. "And while I would love nothing more to acquire a nuclear missile and literally neutralize our fair city, you know that's not really how I operate. Not _really._ No, you see, I'd rather do things the psychological way. Get in their heads, make them destroy _themselves._"

He stood up and paced around the room again, cackling louder this time. "Harley, of all the wealthy...schmucks that run this town, of all the millionaires, there is only one billionaire, without whom Gotham would not only be crime ridden, but more than likely bankrupt as well."

She shifted nervously and swallowed, a smile still plastered across her lips.

He continued. "He controls the banks, he controls the economy, he controls a good percentage of this nation's commerce, he even controls the election results. I want to...take away this, uh, this influence, this unseen hand of God. I want to ruin this city and everyone in it, starting from the very top." He paused and turned to her, a maniacal smile on his face. "I wanna kill Bruce Wayne."

A chill went down Harleen's spine.

_Oh shit, _said Harley.


	14. Fight to the Death

"Alright boys, I don't like to explain myself more than once, so listen carefully."

Mr. J ran a hand through his hair and circled the oblong table, licking his lips, his eyes darting back and forth about the room. His henchmen listened intently, waiting with baited breath for the orders of their leader. There was a hush over them, a bunch of little boys in the presence of someone they knew to be infinitely more powerful than they were.

"My sources tell me that tomorrow morning, Wayne Industries will be receiving a large shipment of arms. You know, guns, bullets, the usual sort of thing." He sat down at the head of the table and took out his knife, pressed it to the table and spun it on its point. "What's more," he looked at Harley, who was standing stoop-shouldered in the corner, her arms crossed, and smiled sickeningly, "I have it on high authority that this particular shipment is going directly into the, uh, belly of the beast - Wayne's swanky, bourgeois penthouse." He stopped the revolving blade and buried it into the table with a slam. "Now, if we can somehow..." he held his hands up and squinted, carefully wording his next statement, "sort of...create a distraction down at the docks...you know, and slip into the shipment somehow, we'll be delivered directly to our target. It's not hard. We've created distractions before," he looked at Harley and winked, "so I have no doubt things will just go...swimmingly. Oh," he suddenly reached into his breast pocket and produced a small camera, then threw it at the closest henchman, "obviously we'll be filming all of this. When we tie Wayne up and graphically murder him, I mean. I'd really like to send this into GCN, give the kiddies a show." There were guttural noises as he tried to keep himself from laughing, then failed, and threw his head back in demonic laughter.

Harley shifted nervously, then shook her head and quietly excused herself from the room. She felt the need to be sick, a harsh stabbing feeling in her gut. Her extremities seemed to go numb as she moved into the next room, away from the earshot of the criminals beside her. She sank down to the ground slowly, staring down at the floor, her mind racing. She covered her eyes with the palms of her hands, feeling the sweat that beaded under them.

"This is...this...my life is just..."

"Spiraling out of control?"

Harley looked up at Harleen, an impatient and commanding presence before her. She was clean cut, looked as she had before this all began, her face no longer lacerated, her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her black suit was starched and pressed, and her sleeves were rolled up neatly. Her hands were on her hips, and her eyes were narrowed, staring down at Harley angrily. "My thoughts exactly," she said, a tone of menace in her voice.

Harley slapped her own cheeks, trying to rid herself of the hallucination. Harleen had never been able to show up whenever she wanted to - when they were two, Harley was always in control. She shut her eyes tightly, then opened them again, expecting Harleen to disappear into thin air, but when she opened them again, she was still there.

"Harleen, what are you doing out of your cage?" She asked in slurred speech, standing up slowly, her head reeling. "I don't recall saying you could come out."

"This is my life Harley," she said coolly, "and your playtime has gone on long enough. You're not going to let him kill Bruce. I won't have it."

Harley laughed. "Like you could stop Mr. J! Once he's made up his mind, he's made it up! I certainly can't stop him, and neither can you. It's like reasoning with a wild animal." She turned away from her, but Harleen was standing behind her already.

"I didn't say reason with him." She came towards Harley menacingly, her arms down at her sides, her muscles flexed. "I said that you need to stop him. At all costs."

Harley shook her head. "No," she said with a slight, nervous smile.

Harley's head snapped back as Harleen punched her square in the nose. "I don't want to hurt you, Harley. But I care about Bruce, and I'm not going to let anything happen to him because of you."

Harley let out a laugh. "What are you going to do? Beat me to death? You know the rules. If I die, you die."

Harleen cracked her neck and took off her blazer, letting it fall to the floor. "If that's what it takes," she said darkly, "so be it."

There was a pause. Only the scuttle of rats and roaches could be heard in the empty warehouse room, and the laughter of men in the next. Harley sighed. "You know, Harleen," she said, "I was actually starting to like you."

Harleen lunged at her, tackling her to the floor, her hands wrapped firmly around her neck. Harley sputtered out a laugh, then kicked Harleen in the stomach and back onto the floor behind her. Harleen stood up quickly and punched her in the jaw, once, twice, three times, before Harley finally countered with a kick to her face.

Harley reached down to her thigh and pulled out a small switchblade, holding it towards Harleen angrily. She swung at her and missed, Harleen ducking around her arm quickly and elbowing her in the ear. Harley let out a squeal of pain and clutched her ear, then laughed.

"You know," she said between fits of laughter, "we probably look incredibly stupid right now. I mean, beating ourselves up and all. We'll be at this all day."

Harleen said nothing, but smoothed her wayward hairs back into her bun. "I know what it looks like," she said between pants, "but I don't care."

Harley chuckled once again. "Oh, self-sacrifice! How very noble of you!" She flipped the switchblade down and tucked it back into her garter. "Look, toots, we're not getting anywhere. What do you say we just call a truce and stop this insanity? Think of all the fun we've yet to have, of all the sex we haven't had, all the people we haven't killed, all the drugs we haven't sampled. What do you say?"

Harleen shook her head, staring at the battered a bloodied woman before her. "Never in your wildest dreams."

"You forget," said Harley, pantomiming snorting a line of coke, "my body doesn't require sleep." She rubbed her nose and laughed wildly.

Harleen shrugged. "You can sleep when you're dead."

Harley laughed and fanned her legs across Harleen's face, sending her into a stack of wooden crates. Harleen shook her head to clear her mind, but Harley was already on top of her, strangling her, her thumbs pushing into her windpipe. Just as things were growing dark, she spotted the switchblade once again. In one swift movement, she slid the knife into the air and caught it, opening it quickly at the top of its mid-air arc, and buried it to the hilt into Harley's side.

Harley let out a scream of pain, clutching at the blade in her side and desperately trying to pull it out. Harleen beat her to it, and yanked it out with a sickening bloody gurgle. Harley fell to her knees, a glazed look in her eye, her breath coming in gasps. "You...you just killed us..." she stammered, her hand clutching the wound.

Harleen moved to her back and grabbed the side of her face. "No," she said in her ear, "I just killed you." She slid the blade across Harley's throat slowly, and both women went limp, falling to the floor in two crumpled heaps.

IVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVIVI

Harleen awoke with a gasp, her face and limbs bloodied, her body feeling as if it had been hit by a truck. She laid there panting on the ground for a moment, then touched her two wounds simultaneously. Her neck was cut deeply, that was for sure, but she wasn't dead - she'd managed to avoid her windpipe and jugular - and the gash in her side was merely a flesh wound.

She smiled slightly, realizing all too late that the action was extremely painful. Her plan had worked perfectly - at the expense of beating the shit out of herself, she was once again whole, and Harley was dead.

She slid her hands under her and stood up very slowly, sucking in air with a painful grimace. She didn't know how long she had been laying there, minutes, days, hours, but one thing was for sure - the laughter of men still echoed though the halls, the clink of glasses and the shuffling of cards prominent in the empty warehouse. She smiled again despite the pain. There was still time to save Bruce.

She limped out of the room quietly and down the hallway, falling lightly into the wall beside her, the room swaying and shaking in sickening waves. She slumped, and she slumped, finally stopping to crouch on the ground for a moment before she threw up what little she had eaten in the hours before. Slowly, she stood up again, and started down the stairs. She rolled her eyes slightly when she realized she wouldn't be able to take the stairs on her feet, and crouched down again to take the stairs one by one, like a small, mentally handicapped child. By the time she reached the bottom of the first flight, ten minutes had passed, and her wrists and ankles felt as if they would break at any moment. Thirty minutes later, and she had finally reached the entrance of the building. She had really done a number on herself, but it was too late to think about that now. She stumbled outside and into a trash can, knocking the contents into the street, its metal lid clanging noisily. Her head twisted around and up to the third story window the men resided in, waiting for one to poke their head out at her. She stayed there for what seemed like hours, frozen to the spot, until she was sure she was clear to move again.

She limped into the underground station at 3 AM, clumsily rolling over a turnstyle and onto the platform. She had left a trail of blood spots behind her, and hoped against hope that the spots would somehow disappear. The homeless men in the station stared at her warily, wondering if what they saw was a dream, but she barely noticed any of them. Here, half naked in the freezing weather, dripping blood in a subway station, she was only concerned about one thing - getting to Bruce's penthouse.

The uptown train skidded to a halt in front of her, and she dragged herself through the metal doors and slumped down into a seat. She was the only person in the car, but stayed alert - there would be nothing worse than meeting Mr. J and explaining to him why she left, why she was covered in blood. She was sure that if he found out, he wouldn't hesitate to kill her.

When she left the car and limped upstairs and into the street, it began to snow. A police car sped by with sirens wailing, but it did not stop or recognize her slender and shivering form. She continued on her journey, down 51st Street and onto Wayne Avenue, so aptly named for the man she wanted to see. When the apartment building came into view, she did not run. She even waited for the "WALK" signal at the crosswalk, then limped pathetically across the street.

When she reached the building, she pressed the buzzer next to Bruce's name. There was no answer. She pressed again, and was once again met with nothing. She pressed again. Nothing.

Slowly, she drew out the handgun from the holster strapped to her thigh. With steady and slow hands, she cocked the weapon and shot the glass that separated the street from the lobby. An alarm rang almost immediately, its high pitched tone shattering the silence of Wayne Avenue. She apathetically kicked the remaining glass out and stepped through the door frame and into the lobby.

Once inside, she walked slowly to the elevators and pressed the Up button, waiting patiently for the muffled "ding". She stepped into the golden cab and pressed the Penthouse button, waiting for the elevator to take her up, up, up into what seemed like the stratosphere. The movement made her dizzy, and she steadied herself on the marble wall to keep from falling.

When the doors finally opened, a short hallway was revealed with an extravagant golden door at the end of it. She limped to the door and knocked on it. No answer. She knocked again. Nothing. She raised her gun again and shot the lock, the door slowly swinging open to a gorgeous marble foyer, complete with fine Italian leather furniture and a grand staircase lined with thick golden hand rails.

She crossed the foyer. She crawled up the stairs. She crossed the dining room and the office that overlooked Gotham and the indoor swimming pool. Finally, she entered the bedroom.

She scanned the bedroom, and stared at the gigantic poster bed. Bruce was nowhere to be found. Across the bedroom, cattycorner from the bed, a door that lead to the balcony stood open, its curtains blowing in the breeze. She limped over to the bed, gun in hand, and sat down, facing the open door. She sat like that for a long time, blood pooling on the hardwood floor underneath her. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, letting the gun dangle between her legs. The draft from the door was freezing, but she hardly felt it. Her skin had long gone numb from the journey to this penthouse. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she nodded off.

At 5:30 AM, her eyes snapped open. Standing in the open doorway was Bruce, in full Batman regalia, save his cowl, which he held in his hand. He looked wary of her, of the gun she held in her hand, so slowly, she unloaded it, and put it on the bedside table, along with her switchblade. "You should really redesign that foyer," she said without emotion, "it looks like someone vomited marble in there." She looked down and managed a little half-laugh, which made her feel as if someone had put fish hooks in her sides. "Also, I got blood on your floor. Sorry."

He rushed to her and knelt down in front of her, and she sank from the edge of the bed and into his arms. "Harleen," he asked, cradling her, "what the hell happened to you? Did...did he do this to you?"

She shook her head. "No. I did this to myself."

He looked puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I. The short story is that I beat the bejesus out of myself. The long story is that I...I don't really want to go into it. You met me at a very strange time in my life." She swallowed and settled into his body, reveling in the comfort she felt at finally being able to sit down. "Look, I'm not really here to discuss that with you. I'm here to warn you. You have an arms deal coming here tomorrow, correct?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but I don't see how - "

"Just listen to me, Bruce. The Joker is planning to take the crate at the harbor. He knows you're bringing it here, and he wants to kill you." She looked up at him, and tried pathetically to get up. "Ok, that's all I needed to say. I really must be going now..."

He stopped her. "No, Harleen, you have to stay here. You're in no shape to be going anywhere, let alone back to that psychopath you call a boyfriend."

She smiled. "He's really not so bad once you get to know him." She grabbed his hand and held it with hers. "But thank you, I appreciate the concern."

He brushed the hair from her eyes. "Why did you come back to warn me?"

She sighed. "It's hard to explain, Bruce. Because...because in an odd way, I care about you. I think that in another life, Harleen Quinzell and Bruce Wayne would have been perfect for each other. But this is the hand we've been dealt. And we must act accordingly."

He smiled down at her and ran a gentle finger over her scar. "I love you, Harleen."

She smiled back. "I know."


	15. Final Transmission

TRANSMISSION DATE: 3/15/09

PATIENT NAME: HARLEEN QUINZELL (aliases - HARLEY QUINN)

DISORDER: SEVERE SCHIZOPHRENIA, POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER.

NOTES: Harleen's alter ego, Harley Quinn, shows a complete disregard for human life,

the textbook definition of a sociopath. Harleen, on the other hand, is completely normal,

quite pleasant, and charming, though her previous career as a doctor at Arkham has caused some resentment towards her therapists. While Harleen claims to have "killed" Harley, the latter still makes appearances from time to time, and must be sedated and restrained in order to be controlled. Patient is considered extremely dangerous.

ADMITTANCE DATE: 2/05/09

Metal door swings open, and Dr. Michael Foreman walks in. Harleen sits patiently, her arms folded underneath her on a metal table. An armed guard waits at the door.

Dr. Michael Foreman: Good morning, Harleen. How are we feeling today?

Harleen Quinzell: I'd like it if you'd refer to me as one person doctor. 'How are _we _feeling'? That's not really establishing any sense of normalcy for me.

DMF: I'm sorry Harleen, just a habit. How are _you _feeling today?

HQ: I'm fine, thank you. How are you?

DMF: Fine, just fine. How are your headaches?

HQ: The drugs seem to be helping.

DMF: We prefer to call them 'little helpers'.

HQ: Isn't that cute?

DMF: I think so, yes.

HQ: That's great.

DMF: I wanna start off today with just a little reminiscence of your past relationships.

HQ: Wow, you're really going in for the jugular.

DMF: Why do you say that?

HQ: What are you, half-retarded?

DMF: I didn't mean we had to talk about the Joker. You're almost 33, you must have had other relationships in your life time.

HQ: Are we talking meaningful ones, or fuck buddies?

DMF: Either one.

There is a pause as she gets a far-off look in her eyes.

HQ: Yeah, there was one meaningful one. I guess. Sort of. It was complicated. It's like every relationship I've had has been complicated.

DMF: That's normal. I've known plenty of adults who haven't had a single solid relationship in their lives.

HQ: I didn't say there haven't been meaningful relationships, you dumb motherfucker.

DMF:...what was that?

Another pause. Harleen's eyes have rolled back into her head, and her head rolls to one side. She makes a few gurgling noises, as if she can't make out words.

DMF: Oh no...Daniel, quickly, I need restraints and a sedative!

GUARD: ...but...Dr. Foreman, are you sure you can handle her alone?

DMF: I won't be able to if you don't get me a damn syringe right now!

The guard takes one last look and quickly leaves. Harleen is convulsing now.

DMF: Come on Harleen, stay with me...don't give in to her, she's dangerous! Don't become that part of yourself!

Harleen's head snaps forward and she smiles, then begins to laugh, which quickly escalates into a full-blown cackle.

HQ: I called you a dumb motherfucker. Those are your initials, right? DMF? Dumb. Mother. Fucker.

She laughs hysterically at this for an incredible amount of time.

DMF: Now, now, there's no need for name calling, Harley...

HQ: SHUT UP! You tell me that I haven't had a meaningful relationship, even while I scream Mr. J's name in my cell at all hours of the night? PLEASE! You never even felt that kind of love in your life!

DMF: Well, that's not entirely true...I mean, I'm married, I have two children...

HQ: Oh, do you? 'Twould be a shame, wouldn't it, to have that pretty little wife of yours widowed and your two darling children orphaned?

DMF: Oh, Harley, you wouldn't...

HQ: Oh, wouldn't I? You know, Mikey, the human jugular vein can be punctured with just about anything. Of course, knives work the best, but there's always the more common household tools. A pair of scissors, a piece of broken glass. A fountain pen that some dumb motherfucker has left carelessly lying around.

Harleen reaches into her bra and produces a fountain pen and slowly stands up from her chair.

HQ: But you're a 20 year man, aren't you? You would never make a rookie mistake like that.

Dr. Michael Foreman stands up and runs to the door, and Harleen leaps over the table at him, grabbing his collar and throwing him into the metal table. He lays there for a moment while she laughs manically, clicking the pen comically and dancing to the rhythm it creates. She bends down to him and takes the pen to his neck, then turns around towards the camera. She walks toward the camera and bends down until she is eye-level with it.

HQ: I'm sorry, but this party's by invitation only.

She laughs and reaches at the lens as Dr. Michael Foreman screams, then disables the lens.

END TRANSMISSION

THE END


End file.
